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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 








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EFFIE HETHERINGFON 


✓ 


EFFIE 

HETHERINGTON 


BY 


s 

Robert Buchanan 



BOSTON 

ROBERTS BROTHERS 
1896 



Copyright , 1896, 

By Roberts Brothers. 

All rights reserved. 


Press: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK I 

THE PASSION OF RICHARD DOUGLAS 


CHAP. 


PAGE 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 


HOW RICHARD DOUGLAS KEPT HALLOWEEN 

HOW DOUGLAS ENTERTAINED FAIR COMPANY 

HOW EFFIE THOUGHT OF BEAUTY AND THE BEAST 

HOW THERE WAS HIGH FEAST AT CASTLE LINDSAY 

HOW EFFIE INVOKED THE GHOST 

HOW THE SPELL GREW .... 

HOW THE CUSHAT CROONED .... 

HOW EFFIE PREPARED FOR WAR 

HOW DOUGLAS SWORE AN OATH 


3 

!3 

34 

48 

65 

80 

90 

103 

”3 


Vlll 


Contents 


BOOK II 

THE SORROW OF EFFIE HETHERINGTON 


CHAP. 

I. HOW HALLOWEEN CAME ROUND ONCE MORE 

II. HOW DOUGLAS LISTENED IN THE NIGHT . 

III. HOW THE WONDER GREW 

IV. HOW RICHARD DOUGLAS KEPT HIS WORD . 

V. HOW ARTHUR LAMONT CAME HOME 

VI. THE SORROW OF EFFIE HETHERINGTON 

VII. LADY BELL ..... 

VIII. THE TWO WOMEN .... 

IX. ft PARTING IS SUCH SWEET SORROW” 

x. vale! ...... 


PAGE 

. I 29 
. I4I 
. I48 
. 154 
. 172 
. 188 
. I99 

. 21 I 

. 223 
. 232 


EPILOGUE— SEVENTEEN YEARS AFTER . 242 


BOOK I. 

THE PASSION OF RICHARD DOUGLAS. 

“ Je dy toujours, et sans cesse diray, 

Sans que jamais je change de propos, 

Quand vos vertus & tous j’annonceray, 

Que tout honneur en vous prend son repos. 

Quelle beaut^ h. vous compareray ? 

Quel coeur gentil k bien du tout dispos ? 

Digne m’estes pas du bien de 1’ autre vie. 

Si votre los toujours ne le convie ? ” 

La Chanson Amoureuse. 


i 




CHAPTER I. 


HOW RICHARD DOUGLAS KEPT HALLOWEEN. 

“Stroke her hair o’ gowden sheen. 

Feel her cheek and close her een. 

If she be a virgin maid, 

She will smile nor be afraid j 
If she be an evil thing, 

Down the flood her body fling, 

Droon’d and rotten let her glide 
Till the torrent meets the tide.” 


Kelpie Song. 


N the night of October 31, 1870, Richard 



Douglas, of that ilk, stood alone at the door 
of his weather-beaten dwelling, gazing out on the 
stormy waters of the Solway Firth. Though the 
rain was falling in torrents, and beating in upon him 
with great flecks of foam from the surging sea, he 
was bareheaded and stood, careless of the angry 
elements, with folded arms. 

All was dark before him, save when the full moon 
glimmered out from the storm-cloud and flashed like 
fireflaught on the great Firth, on the dark stretch of 
moorland to the north, and on the distant mountains 
of Galloway beyond. The dismal house stood in 


4 


Ejjie Hetherington. 


the centre of the Moss, and about a quarter of a mile 
from the sandy shore. There was no road thither, 
only a bridle-path communicating with the distant 
highway and leading through pastureless acres of 
desolate morass — the laird’s savage patrimony, from 
which he took his name. 

A lonely place ; a lonely man, and the last of his 
name — poor as one gently born could be, ill-favoured 
both by nature and fortune, and with neither kith nor 
kin, wife nor friend. Thirty years past he had come 
into the world crying on the breast of a dead mother, 
and ten years later his father had broken his neck in a 
mad gallop homeward after a night of revel in the 
town of Dumfries, leaving the few barren acres and 
the dismal homestead as all the inheritance of his 
orphaned boy. The shadow of those early calamities 
had passed into the soul of Douglas, and made it dark 
and solitary. With the torso and trunk of a tall man, 
he was only five feet six inches high. But he was 
strong as Hercules, with the sinewy chest of a lion 
and the long muscular arms of a man-ape. 

“ Come ben, come ben ! ” cried a shrill voice from 
within. “ What keeps ye there glowering in the 
cauld blast and the rain ? Come ben, laird, and bar 
the door ! ” 

He hesitated for a moment, then closed the door 
against the rushing wind, and, passing along a dark 
lobby, entered the kitchen — a large raftered chamber, 
dismal as a barn. A woman of seventy stood in the 


Effie Hetherington. 


5 


ingle, muttering to herself as she bent over the peat 
fire. 

“You’re drookit to the skin,” she cried, glancing 
round as he entered. “ Come, laird, and dry your 
claise.” 

Pausing in the light of an old-fashioned oil-lamp 
suspended from the ceiling, Douglas shook the rain- 
drops from his black hair and beard, and then walked 
over to the fire. His face would have been hand- 
some, but the black eyes were too small and keen, 
and the features wore an habitual gloom ; yet his ex- 
pression grew gentle enough, and the eyes were not 
unkind as he glanced at the old woman, his sole 
companion and attendant in the lonely house. 

“ A black night, Elspeth,” he said, “ and dour 
enough for Halloween. Yet I saw lights inland 
across the Moss, and there are folk gathering up at 
the farms.” 

The woman sighed and shook her head. 

“Ye should be there amang them, laird, instead o’ 
wearying at hame. What way will ye no’ be a man 
amang men — aye, and a wooer amang wooers like 
the rest ? There are braw lassies wi’ grand tochers 
yonder, and the laird o’ Douglas might tak’ his 
choice.” 

The man laughed — a curious laugh, like the croak 
of a corby crow ; then taking from his breast-pocket a 
coarse briar-root pipe, lit it with a peat from the fire, 
and sat down. Elspeth watched him quietly, and 


6 


Ejfie Hetherington . 


then continued, partly as if addressing him, partly 
as if communing with herself — 

“Wae’s me if the house o’ Douglas is to waste 
awa’ like a house built on sand ! Three generations 
hae I seen, and noo the laird stands alane, a withered 
stump, like the blasted tree up yonder on the Moss. 
Fain would I hear the cry o’ bairns in Douglas before 
I dee ; and the time ’s near, but the hoose is toom as 
a last year’s nest.” 

“Just so,” said the man, staring moodily at the 
fire. u What then, woman ? ” 

“ What then, laird ? Is it no’ a sin an’ a shame 
that it should be ? ” 

“No, by God!” returned Douglas. “We were 
an ill race, and no one will miss the breed when it is 
blotted out. Let the house fall, since the devil has 
put his curse upon it, and his mark on me ! ” 

“Ye’re like yer faither,” said Elspeth. “He was 
a dour man and ever discontentit, and the curse drove 
him to the drink for comfort, till he brak’ his neck on 
that mad gallop hame. Weel, weel, weel ! It ’s ill 
arguing wi’ your faither’s son ! Y et had I my will, 
ye wadna be sitting there bent double like an auld 
man, but be up and abroad, among the gentry, looking 
for a bonnie bride this Halloween ! ” 

Again the man laughed ; this time almost fiercely. 
Then rising suddenly, he gazed out through a large 
window looking inland. Far across the Moss the 
lights were moving still. 


Effie Hetherington . 


7 


w And there will be grand company,” continued 
Elspeth, “ up at the moor the nicht. The Lamonts 
are there, and Miss Forsyth from Castle Gordon, and 
Lord Graeme’s factor wi’ his dochters hame frae 
France.” 

“ Damn them ! ” muttered Douglas. 
u Aye, dawm awa’ ! ” echoed the old woman. 
u But maist o’ them are rich, and some o’ them are 
bonnie, and a man might pick amang them blindfold 
and fare better than dwelling like a stirk in the stall.” 

u Hold your tongue, you fool ! ” cried the laird, 
turning angrily. “ I shall never marry.” 

So saying he left the kitchen, and passed along the 
dark lobby to another room — a large and dismal 
chamber on the ground-floor, rudely furnished as a 
sitting-room. No carpet covered the floor, which 
was of polished black oak, like the rafters overhead. 
A long dining-table and a few oaken chairs were the 
only furniture, save a few faded oil-portraits on the 
walls, and some guns and fishing-rods suspended in 
a rack over the fireplace. An old-fashioned oil-lamp, 
like that in the kitchen, swung from the central beam, 
and before the smouldering fire lay several dogs — 
an old deerhound, toothless and blind, a couple of 
spaniels, and a black retriever — which looked round 
at their master’s entrance, but made no other sign. 
The table was covered with books and maps, and 
other books were scattered about upon the floor. 
Through the uncurtained window, which formed a 


8 


Effie Hetherington. 


large recess with a time-worn oaken seat, came the 
fitful flash of the moonlight and the glimmer of the 
angry sea. 

The storm roared, the rain splashed on the panes, 
and the house shook through and through with the 
force of the angry blast. 

Lost in thought, Douglas paced up and down the 
chamber, unheeded by the dogs on the hearth, who 
were doubtless familiar with their master’s disposition, 
and made no attempt to attract his notice. At last he 
paused before a painting on the wall, the picture of a 
woman, pale and wan, with faint, sad eyes looking 
out beneath an old-fashioned headdress, and mittened 
hands folded tranquilly in her lap of old brocade. He 
gazed at it long and silently. It was the face of his 
dead mother, whom in life he had never known. 
Close to it was another likeness, to which he turned 
at last, and now he might have been looking into a 
mirror, seeing reflected there his own gloomy features, 
his frowning brows, his deep-set, angry eyes ; for it 
was the face of his father, the last laird of Douglas. 
This face, like his own, possessed an abiding gloom, 
but it was lighted from within by a lambent flame 
of grim humour, which played round the lips like 
sheet-lightning round the edge of a thunder-cloud ; 
and well indeed had the unknown artist caught this 
peculiarity of one who, by his mad frolics — if the 
freaks of so stern a man could be called by such a 
name — had earned the title of “ Dare-the-Deil.” 


Effie Hetherington. 


9 


Douglas looked long and lingeringly at the woman’s 
picture, but turned away impatiently from that of the 
man. Then, throwing himself into the armchair, he 
took up a book and tried to read. It was a curious 
book for such a person to study, but it bore the marks 
of frequent use, as if it had been much handled by its 
possessor — the “ Decameron ” of Giovanni Boccaccio, 
in a French translation, published with illustrations in 
aquafortis. 

The book fell open, as if by constant habit, at the 
pages containing the eighth and ninth novels of the 
fifth day. These two wondrous tales appeared to 
have been read and re-read till paper and print were 
thumbed, and dog’s-eared, and worn, far beyond all 
the rest of the book. Their subjects the reader will 
no doubt remember ; the one describes how Anastasio 
Onesti, being in love with a lady, and despised, goes 
to Chiassi, and sees a lady pursued by a huntsman, 
and then torn down and devoured by dogs ; the 
second tells the piteous history of Federigo, who, 
having spent all his substance for his lady’s sake, slays 
for her, and sacrifices to her dainty appetite, his 
favourite hawk. 

Little need had Douglas to follow the printed lines ; 
every sentence, every syllable, of these narratives was 
familiar to him, burned as if with fire into his brain. 
Yet he read on eagerly, as if the themes were new. 
And as he read his dark face kindled, his eyes burned, 
and there hung round his heavy lips a light like the 


IO 


Fjffie Hetherington. 


lambent gleam round the mouth of his father’s por- 
trait ; like, but different, more fierce and animal, more 
lurid and sensual, more characteristic of the burning 
fire in the man’s troubled heart. 

w And he saw , flying to him through the under- 
wood, with dishevelled hair , her tender body torn and 
bleeding , a beautiful young woman , after whom ran 
two black hounds , who bit her as she ran , causing her 
to utter piteous cries . "Then came a rider on a black 
horse , looking with a fierce countenance , and gripping 
in his hand a dagger with which , uttering wild re- 
proaches, he threatened the woman's life. . . . And the 
hounds seized her by the haunches, and dragged her 
down to the ground, when the fierce rider dismounted 
and went towards her." 

Facing the lines I have quoted was a picture of the 
scene, horrible enough, but distinguished for the 
beauty of the victim’s face and figure. Douglas bent 
over it, as if drinking in every detail \ as he did so, a 
sharp agony passed through his frame, and his features 
were distorted with emotion. Then, turning the pages 
over fiercely and impatiently, he read as follows : — 

u ’Though he was so poor, Federigo had never till 
that day realised the poverty to which his reckless 
love and mad extravagance had brought him ; but 
now, having nought in the house to set before his 
lady, he felt it sore, and angrily cursed his fortune, 
and went hither and thither vainly seeking for money, 
or for money's worth, which he might sell. . . . Sud- 


1 


Effie Hetherington. 1 1 

denly he remembered his hawk , sitting on a perch in 
his room ; and knowing not what else to do , he thought 
it might form a dish to please his lady , and he wrung 
its neck . Then did he tell his maidservant to pluck 
it and roast it ; and , after covering the table with 
the only white tablecloth he had remaining , he hied 
into the garden with a cheerful face , and told his lady 
that all he could ojfer to her to eat was ready . There- 
fore she sat down with her companion, and, waited 
upon by Federigo, she ate the bird, not knowing what 
it was.” 

Why did the man’s eyes grow dim ? Why did his 
lips quiver like a grieving child’s as he read these 
simple words ? His emotion grew so great he threw 
the book aside, and, rising to his feet, strode up and 
down the room. The rain beat against the window 
panes, and the wind shook the lonely house, while he 
muttered to himself aloud — 

u Elspeth is right ; I should be out yonder, not 
lingering here. I shall go mad soon, if this goes on ! 
Up there at the farms, away at the great house, the 
music is playing, and the lamps are burning, and the 
lassies are rustling in their silks. There ’s love-making 
and embracing in kitchen and in hall ; but only old 
Elspeth and this rat-trap of a house for me! No fool 
like an old fool ! Thirty years old, and fretful as a 
sick bairn. Damn the women ! Damn their soft, 
smooth faces, and their scented hair, and all their 
winsome ways ! Ay, damn them all — save one ! ” 


12 


Effie Hetherington . 


He paused and raised his hands, which were 
clenched together. At that moment the wind fell, 
and there was a half silence, broken by a sound like 
horses’ hoofs on the path which passed the house. 
He dropped his hands and listened. Mingled with 
the first sound came laughter of human voices ; then 
a man’s voice cried loudly, and a clear, bell-like 
woman’s voice replied. Thereupon the wind and 
rain resumed their tumult ; but in its midst he heard, 
to his amazement, a loud knocking at the front door. 


CHAPTER II. 


HOW DOUGLAS ENTERTAINED FAIR COMPANY. 

t( The siller sheckle wags its pow 
Upon the brae, my deary; 

The wind around the winnelstrae 
Is whistling never weary! 

And its hey the blossom o’ the broom, 

And ho the wither’d thorn; 

The bat glowers at the candlelight, 

And thinks it shining morn.” 

Old Song. 

T WO or three minutes afterwards old Elspeth 
entered the room. 

u Laird ! Laird ! ” she cried ; u come but the hoose ! 
Here ’s company bound for Castle Lindsay seeking 
shelter frae the storm. There’s Mr. Aird, the writer, 
frae Dumfries, and twa young gentlemen, and twa 
bonnie young leddies, all drookit to the skin ; and their 
grooms are ootside half-dround, wi’ the puir horses 
jest wild wi’ fright.” 

As she spoke, the sound of voices came through 
the open door, drowned in a moment by the peal of a 
thunderclap which shook the house. One who did 
not know Douglas would have said that he was para- 


1 4 Effie Hetherington . 

lysed with terror. His face had grown suddenly 
white as death. 

« What brings them here ? ” he murmured. 

“ Noo, there ’s a feckless question ! ” cried the old 
woman. u Did ye no’ hear ? They were riding 
across the Moss when the storm came down, and they 
came here for shelter till it ’s blaun by. Lord preserve 
us ! Look at that ! ” 

The last words were called forth by a sudden flash 
of lightning, so vivid that it seemed to wrap the whole 
room in liquid flame. Thunder followed almost 
instantly, a crash like the splitting of a solid mountain, 
followed by a discordant and awful roar. There was 
a scream from the kitchen, faint and terrified. 

“ That ’s one o’ the young leddies ! ” said Elspeth. 
u She ’s heysteerical — laughing ae minute and screech- 
ing the next.” 

Douglas did not hear the end of the sentence. 
With an impatient cry he had left the room, and, 
rushing along the lobby, entered the kitchen, where 
his unexpected visitors had assembled. Pausing upon 
the threshold, he gazed upon them. There were five 
individuals in all — three gentlemen and two ladies. 
One gentleman, Mr. Aird, the solicitor, was a wiry 
little man of fifty, dressed in black ; the two others, 
described by Elspeth as the u young Lamonts,” were 
young men of three-and-twenty and nineteen respec- 
tively, both clad in riding-coats and breeches, both 
top-booted and spurred. These three, and a dark-eyed 


Ejjie Hetherington. 


l S 


young lady of eighteen, wearing a dark riding-dress 
and low-crowned hat, were all standing, and gazing 
rather helplessly at the last member of the party, who, 
seated on a stool near the fire, was hiding her face in 
her hands and trembling hysterically. She, too, wore 
a riding costume, dripping and soaking with the rain. 
Her hat had fallen off, and her hair of dusky gold had 
unloosened itself and fallen over her shoulders. At 
every lightning flash and accompanying peal of thun- 
der, which now came in rapid succession, she uttered 
low cries like a frightened bird, and seemed about to 
faint away. 

“ Effie ! Eflie ! ” cried the dark-eyed young lady. 
cc How foolish you are ! See, here is Mr. Douglas.” 

Eflie started, uncovered her eyes, and looked 
round, showing a delicately pretty face, and two large, 
wistful blue eyes ; meeting the eager gaze of the 
owner of the house, she smiled faintly. 

u I cannot help it, Lady Bell,” she said. u The 
lightning always terrifies me. Oh, Mr. Douglas, is 
the storm nearly over ? ” 

Another flash answered her, but this time the 
thunder was less instantaneous and sounded further 
away. 

“ The storm is passing away,” answered Douglas. 
“ There is nothing to be afraid of, Miss Hethering- 
ton. But in the name of all that is unlucky why are 
you abroad in such weather ? ” 

The elder of the two young men, Arthur Lamont, 


Effie Hetherington. 


16 

a slight and somewhat effeminate, but very handsome 
fellow, with auburn hair and a light moustache) 
answered the question. 

u We have had a gallop to Dumfries, and were 
riding back to the Castle for the Halloween. It was 
a fine night when we started, and no sign of bad 
weather ; but the rain caught us in the centre of the 
Moss near the Tyke Bridge, and then, by George ! 
the storm came down ! Our horses became almost 
unmanageable, and yours being the only house handy, 
we trotted in here.” 

U just so,” said Mr. Aird ; “and very hard work 
we had to find you, as you may guess.” 

Scarcely heeding the words said to him, Douglas 
had approached Miss Hetherington and was bending 
eagerly over her. 

“You are dripping wet ! ” he exclaimed. “You 
will catch your death ! ” 

u I don’t mind the soaking,” she answered, looking 
softly up into his face, u if that dreadful lightning 
will only cease. You know, Mr. Douglas, I had a 
sister struck dead by my side when we were playing 
in a field, and ever since then — oh ! oh ! ” 

Startled by another blinding flash, she caught hold 
of Douglas and clung close to him, hiding her face 
upon his arm. He trembled at her touch, and shook 
like a leaf. He tried to speak, but could not ; he 
stood in strange agitation, moistening his dry lips 
nervously with the tip of his tongue ; and through his 


Ejfie Hetherington . 17 

frame there ran a wild thrill of gladness as he felt the 
touch of the girl’s warm cheek and clinging hands. 

The young lady who had been addressed as Lady 
Bell glanced at Arthur Lamont, and shrugged her 
shoulders ; then, turning to Douglas, she said — 

“ We are all in a sad plight, as you see. I, too, 
am dripping like a mermaid. But it is useless lin- 
gering here. We had better ride on, unless Effie 
Hetherington means to stay all night.” 

Effie raised her face from the laird’s arm, but still 
clung to his sleeve with her nervous hands. 

“ I beg your pardon, Lady Bell,” she said respect- 
fully. “ I scarcely know what I am doing — I am 
so terrified ! But I am ready to go on if you wish it.” 

“That you shall not!” cried Douglas. “You 
shall bide here till the storm is done ! Elspeth ! ” 

“ Laird,” answered the old woman. 

“Put some peat upon the fire — bestir yourself! 
Get hot water ! And go ben to the sitting-room and 
bring the bottle. Don’t be alarmed, Miss Hethering- 
ton. There is no danger w, except of cold and 
ague ; but a glass of warm toddy will put that 
right.” 

The kitchen was now full of a faint vapour, drawn 
by the blazing fire from the visitors’ saturated forms. 
The men had taken off their hats, outer coats, and 
cloaks, and thrown them aside ; but Lady Bell still 
wore her hat and riding-cloak, both of which were 
dripping wet. As for Miss Hetherington, she sat, 
2 


1 8 


Effie Hetherington. 


a pool of water at her feet, with her cloak around 
her, steaming, close to the fire. 

w Let me take your cloak,” said Douglas, all of 
whose solicitude seemed to be for the one frightened 
girl. 

She rose up, and he took the cloak from her shoul- 
ders. Meantime old Elspeth had hobbled back into 
the room with a bottle of whisky, which she placed 
upon the table, then, stooping down close to Miss 
Hetherington, she exclaimed — 

“ My conscience, leddy, your bonnie shoon are jest 
turn’d till pap, and your hosen are running water. 
Bide a bit, and let me tak’ them off, and dry them by 
the fire.” 

Effie laughed, and glanced nervously at Lady Bell, 
who was watching the proceeding with an impatience 
she took no pains to conceal. At this juncture 
Arthur Lamont came forward and said — 

u My dear Bell, you too are soaking ! Give me 
your cloak to dry.” 

u Oh, don’t mind me , Arthur ! ” answered the young 
lady, with a malicious laugh. u / am not salt or sugar, 
and shall not melt ! Effie Hetherington is different 
— she is delicate, poor thing ! and needs attention.” 

By this time Effie had reseated herself, and was 
suffering Elspeth to draw off her shoes and stockings. 
As Lady Bell spoke, she looked round and smiled. 
For the moment her terror seemed to have passed 
away and given place to a sarcastic merriment. 


Effie Hetherington. 


l 9 


w I am quite warm now,” she cried, holding two 
pretty naked feet towards the fire and toasting them 
in the glow. u Oh, Lady Bell, won’t you come and 
be toasted too ? ” 

As Lady Bell turned petulantly away to address 
some trifling remark to Mr. Aird, the eyes of Arthur 
Lamont and Miss Hetherington met ; it was only for 
a moment, but a close observer would have seen in it 
a hidden understanding, a secret sympathy. Douglas 
did not notice the look ; he stood in the ingle hanging 
up the cloak, and glancing from the naked feet of the 
owner up to her white, ungloved hands. Few ob- 
serving his gloomy face would have suspected the wild 
yearning which just then possessed him — a yearning 
to kneel down and shower kisses upon the girl’s rosy 
hands and feet. 

“ Silk stockings ! ” cried Elspeth, as she spread them 
out before the fire. M Silk stockings, and shoon mair 
fit for a fairy’s wear then a young leddy ! Did ye ever 
see the like ? Siccan hosen and shoon for Christian 
wear ! ” 

There was a general laugh, in which Effie herself 
joined. 

u Who could tell that it would rain so terribly ? 
Do, Mr. Douglas, see to Lady Bell ! Make her do 
as I am doing ! She will be sure to catch cold ! ” 

But Lady Bell was obdurate ; she refused even to 
take ofF her cloak, and was still eager to hasten on. 
Even when the hot water was steaming on the table, 


20 


Fjjjie Hetherington . 


and Elspeth had deftly mixed one or two tumblers of 
whisky and water, the dark young lady refused to 
taste a drop. Mr. Aird and the young man helped 
themselves, while Douglas, taking a steaming glass 
from the table, brought it over to Effie Hetherington. 
Effie laughed at first and shook her pretty head ; but 
at last, at the laird’s gentle persuasion, she raised the 
glass to her lips. 

“ How strong it is ! ” she said gaily, with a little 
grimace. “ But it ’s very nice and sweet ! Make 
Lady Bell take some, Mr. Arthur ; do ! ” 

As she sat there in the glow of the firelight, her 
delicate features illumined, her shapely feet peeping 
- — >i like rosebuds from under her petticoat of lace, her 
golden brown hair poured over her shoulders, her 
large eyes full of mingled wistfulness and pleasure, 
Effie Hetherington looked prettier than ever. The 
health and happiness of youth — for she was only 
nineteen — seemed to irradiate her tall and graceful 
but firmly knitted form, and fill every look and word 
with nameless charm. She had all the clinging sweet- 
ness of the innocent maiden, lightly touched with 
the sparkling humour of the natural coquette ; for a 
coquette she was by nature, and by habit one of those 
light delightful things who are too pretty to be loved 
by their own sex and shine best under the admiring 
eyes of men. Experienced in such matters, she did 
not fail to be fully conscious of her host’s gloomy 
admiration; but again and again her eyes glanced 


Ejjie Hetberington. 


21 


towards Arthur Lamont, as if she sought and expected 
a greater and more certain tribute there. 

Women are strange, says the proverb. Effie was 
fully aware also of the annoyance she was causing to 
her friend and companion, Lady Bell ; and this also 
she seemed to enjoy, either from feminine perversity, 
or for some more subtle reason. Though it was quite 
clear from her manner that she was the dark lady’s 
inferior in rank and social position, she was her 
superior not only in natural charm but in all the 
daring arts with which women conquer the sterner 
sex. By natural right, she knew, Lady Bell should 
have been the centre of the picture, the leading object 
of interest, then and at all times ; but the prettier 
woman had mastered the situation, and was secretly 
enjoying her little triumph — as pretty women will. 

While Mr. Aird, the Lamonts, and Lady Bell 
gathered talking together round the table, and old 
Elspeth busied herself by the fire looking to the 
steaming clothes, Douglas remained persistently close 
to Effie, devouring her with his dark eyes. 

“ Are you stopping still at the Castle ? ” he asked 
presently. 

Effie, who still had the tumbler in her right hand, 
held it up to the light, and nodded smilingly as she 
replied — 

“ Oh, yes ; I have been there all the summer, but 
at the New Year I am going back to Edinburgh. I 
think,” she added, sinking her voice — “ I think I 


22 


Effie Hetherington . 


shall be bidden back to the marriage, but I am not 
sure.” 

M The marriage ? — what marriage ? ” 

M Mr. Arthur’s, with Lady Bell ! ” 

What a changeful little face ! As she spoke the 
words, it grew suddenly over-clouded — a strange light 
came into her eyes, and the delicate mouth grew hard, 
almost cruel. 

u Ah, yes,” muttered Douglas ; u I heard something 
about it. They have been engaged a long time ? ” 
Effie laughed, and the laugh was not so pleasant as 
usual — a little bitter, perhaps, and scornful. 

“ Hush ! ” she whispered confidentially. “ They 
must n’t hear you. Yes, it ’s a long engagement, as 
you say. Do you believe in long engagements ? 
People see too much of each other, and weary before 
the honeymoon. Don’t you think so ? ” 

“I — I don’t know,” answered the laird. “ I have 
had very little experience.” 

“ Of course not,” said the girl, more lightly. w You 
are an old bachelor, Mr. Douglas. Folk say you hate 
women, but I ’m sure that is n’t true. I often wonder 
you have never married. You must be so lonely 
here.” 

Douglas trembled, and did not answer. I think, 
had they been alone, he could have seized the speaker 
in his arms, and, straining her to his bosom, have 
poured into her ears all the wild passion burning in 
his heart. Never in his life had he felt so happy as at 


Effie Hetherington. 


2 3 


that moment. Effie’s unaffectedness, her winning 
confidence, her freedom as to an old and trusted friend, 
were delicious beyond measure ; for he saw in them 
not coquetry, but sympathy — even encouragement. 
He would have been content to have her remain thus 
for ever. In all the fever of his idolatry, he would 
have asked no more. 

“ Do you live here all alone ? ” she asked in a 
moment. 

“ Y es, with old Elspeth, my servant and foster- 
mother.” 

u Don’t you feel very dull ? ” 

“ Sometimes.” 

“ How do you amuse yourself ? ” she demanded, 
with a querying lift of the eyebrows. 

“With books — with my own thoughts. When 
they become too much for me, I gallop into Dumfries, 
or roam out yonder by the sea.” 

She looked into his face wonderingly, and the look 
to him seemed full of tenderness and compassion ; then, 
meeting his ardent gaze, she blushed, and smiled again. 

“ Do you remember when we first met ? ” 

Did he remember ? As if he could forget ! 

“Yes; at the Mearns Farm, last year,” he replied. 
“ The Carlyles are your kinsfolk — do you see them 
often ? ” 

He did not tell her how often he had haunted the 
place in the hope of her coming over. 

“ Not often,” she said. “ I have been kept so busy 


24 


Effie Hetherington. 


at the Castle. Ah, Mr. Douglas, you cannot tell how 
sad it is to feel so poor and dependent ! I ought to 
have been born rich, then I could have chosen my 
own company, and lived my own life. Sometimes I 
could cry — I feel so lost, so friendless ! ” 

And again her eyes grew soft, filling with tears. 
She had spoken in a voice so low that her listener had 
to stoop down, his ear close to her lips, in order to 
catch the words ; but there was no danger of being 
overheard, as the others were loudly discussing their 
arrangements for the ride onward. As she ceased, 
however, the conversation came to a pause, and the 
other members of the party, obeying a sign from Lady 
Bell, all turned their eyes on herself and Douglas. 
The latter, finding himself the object of their scrutiny, 
drew himself up quickly, and scowled at Arthur 
Lamont, whose face wore a peculiarly sarcastic smile. 

By this time the lightning and thunder had ceased, 
but the rain was still falling heavily. 

4C I declare,” cried Effie, suddenly, cc we have quite 
forgotten the poor grooms. How selfish we are ! ” 

M Speak for yourself, Effie,” interposed Lady Bell. 
u I have been ready this half-hour, waiting your will ; 
and by this time, if I had had my way, both ourselves 
and the poor grooms, as you call them, would have 
been safe home.” 

“ It ’s pouring hard still,” said Douglas. “ I ’ll see 
what the men are doing, and give them some whisky 
to keep them warm.” 


Effie Hetherington. 


2 5 


So saying, he took the bottle from the table, and 
strode out to the front door. The moment he had 
gone Lady Bell turned to Effie with a malicious 
laugh. 

“Just like you, Effie Hetherington! You’d flirt 
with a stone dyke if no man were near ! ” 

“ Indeed, Lady Bell, nothing was further from my 
thoughts,” answered Effie, lightly. 

“ The man ’s a savage,” cried the other ; “ and this 
place of his is only fit to shelter cattle. What was 
the man saying to you ? He was glowering into your 
eyes like a mad thing ! But it ’s maybe more to the 
purpose to ask what you were saying to him ? ” 

“ Nothing very particular,” answered Effie, laugh- 
ing. “ I was asking if he lived here all alone, and he 
said, c Yes.’ And then he asked me if I was staying 
up at the Castle, and / said c Yes.’ And I think that 
was all.” 

“ You have met him before ? ” said Arthur Lamont. 
“ I did not know that you were acquainted.” 

“ Oh, yes — slightly. We met at the Mearns Farm 
when I was visiting my kinsfolk. He ’s a strange 
man, Mr. Arthur. He has dwelt here all his days, 
and has never married.” 

“ What ’s strange in that ? ” broke in Mr. Aird. 
“ The world is n’t all marrying and giving in marriage, 
and I ’m on the bachelors’ list myself.” 

“ Well, then, Effie, there ’s your chance ! ” said Lady 
Bell. “ A bachelor and a house going a-begging ! 


26 


Effie Hetherington. 


Think how. grand it would sound — c Mistress Douglas 
o’ Douglas ! ’ ” 

Effie’s face flushed angrily, and again there passed 
that mysterious look between her and Arthur Lamont. 

u Many thanks, Lady Bell ; but I ’m not to be 
disposed of so easily. And when I ’m married, it will 
not be to a savage, as you call him, though I ’m sure 
he ’s been very kind.” 

Re-entering the kitchen at the moment, old Elspeth 
heard the last few words, and exclaimed — 

“ Kind, my leddy ? Is it the laird ? He ’s kind and 
he ’s gude, for a’ that folk say o’ him, and for a’ that 
he hides himseP here like a stoat in a hole. But he ’s 
prood — prood — maybe he has reason. The blood o’ 
Douglas is o’ the best, and a Douglas o’ that ilk was 
a laird in King Jamie’s time.” Then, turning to 
Lady Bell, she asked, with a curtsey, “ Is your leddy- 
ship Leddy Bell Lindsay o’ Castle Lindsay ? ” 

“ Yes, good wife,” was the reply; “ I ’m Lady Bell.” 
Elspeth dropped another curtsey. 
u My gude man work’d for your faither langsyne, 
my leddy. I mind ye well when you were a wee 
lassie. Your mither was leeving then. And this young 
gentleman will be Mr. Arthur Lamont, to whom ye ’re 
contractit ? ” 

Arthur Lamont nodded. 

“ I kenned your faither, young sir, and your faither’s 
faither. An auld family, the Lamonts, but no sae auld 
as the Lindsays ! ” 


Effie Hetherington. 


27 


The old woman would have gossiped on, but was 
stopped by the return of her master, of whom she 
stood in no little fear, and who silenced her with a 
scowl ; and, dropping another curtsey to the young 
couple, she retired into the ingleside. 

u The men are all right,” said Douglas, again 
addressing Effie Hetherington; “and the horses too 
for that matter. They ’re sheltered round in the 
stables, and awaiting your pleasure.” 

Effie glanced at Lady Bell as she said — 

“ I ’m sure I shall never be able to ride Blinkbonny 
again. The mare shies at everything, and at the 
bridge I was nearly thrown.” 

“You shall take Hawthorn, if you like,” interposed 
Arthur Lamont, “ and I ’ll ride the mare. But no, I 
forgot — the beast won’t carry a lady.” 

“ Something must be done,” cried Lady Bell, im- 
patiently, “ unless we are to stay here all night. I 
am really losing patience. First Effie grows hysterical 
about the lightning, as if her life were more precious 
than any others ; then she pretends she is afraid to 
ride. She must go or stay. Perhaps Mr. Douglas 
will let her remain here until the morning.” 

“ Remain here till morning ! ” exclaimed Effie, as 
if greatly amazed and shocked. “ Here ! ” 

“ Of course that will never do,” said Arthur Lamont, 
glancing at Douglas. “ I think, Effie, you ’d better 
make up your mind to ride the mare. She ’ll be quiet 
enough, now the storm ’s over.” 


28 


Effie Hetherington. 


“ I ’m afraid ! ” said Effie, her blue eyes becoming 
misty with tears as she looked wistfully up into the 
young man’s face. 

“ Afraid ! ” repeated Lady Bell, scornfully. 

Here Douglas broke in with gloomy decision — 

w The young lady is right — yon beast is not fit for 
her to mount. I ’ve seen the mare — she ’s half dead 
with fright already. There is only one way. Let 
you others ride on to the Castle ; I ’ll have out my 
own horse and drive Miss Hetherington over.” 

“ But it ’s so absurd ! ” cried Lady Bell. 

“ It would be worse than absurd if any accident 
happened to Miss Hetherington.” 

u Well, as you please,” Lady Bell responded. w I ’m 
sure Effie is fortunate in finding so thoughtful a pro- 
tector. But maybe your conveyance will not content 
her ; she has fanciful notions, and may want a coach 
and four.” 

“ How unkind you are ! ” exclaimed Effie. “ Give 
me my shoes and stockings, good wife. I ’ll go with 
you, Lady Bell. I ’ll — I ’ll ride Blinkbonny, though 
I get my death.” 

“ By Heaven, you shall not ! ” said Douglas, with 
almost savage vehemence. u Since you have come 
to this house, I ’ll see you safe to your own door.” 

Without condescending to discuss the matter fur- 
ther, Lady Bell left the room, signing to her lover 
to follow ; but Arthur Lamont lingered behind for a 
moment, saying — 


Effie Hetherington. 


29 


“ I ’m sorry, Effie, for all this mishap. It ’s 
deucedly uncomfortable for everybody ; and — ” 
“Oh, never mind me — go to Lady Bell,” an- 
swered the girl ; and again the hard look came into 
her gentle eyes, and the cruel lines could be seen 
about her mouth. 

u Come along, Arthur,” said Mr. Aird from the 
door. “ Our friend Douglas will take good care of 
Miss Hetherington ; and unless we hasten on, there ’ll 
be no keeping Halloween till this night twelve- 
month.” 

Slowly, and with seeming reluctance, young Lamont 
followed his brother and the lawyer, pausing at the 
door for a last glance at Effie. 

“ Take the lamp, woman,” said Douglas to Elspeth. 
“ Light those people to the door.” 

The old woman took down a small oil-lamp 
suspended above the ingle, and hastened from the 
kitchen. The moment she had gone Effie looked up 
at Douglas, and said to him sadly, quite with the 
freedom of an old friend — 

“ You see what I have to bear ! Since she has 
become engaged to Mr. Arthur, Lady Bell has always 
been like that. I ’m sure,” she added with a little 
nervous laugh, “ she might wear the mask a little 
longer. She ’s not married to him yet ! ” 

Douglas was silent, full of his own thoughts. 

“ Do you think her pretty ? ” asked Effie, after a 
moment. 


3 ° 


Effie Hetherington . 


“ Her ? Whom ? ” he answered half vacantly. 

“Lady Bell. Tell me frankly, now.” 

“ I am no judge, 1 ” was the reply. “ She seems to 
give herself airs, at any rate.” 

“ She has fine eyes,” continued Effie, thoughtfully, 
looking at the fire ; “ and she is very rich and very 
accomplished.” 

“ And proud as the devil ! ” said Douglas, with a 
rough laugh. 

“Just so; she is very, very proud. She has been 
spoiled by her father, and by all her folk.” 

“ I should n’t wonder. That young fellow seems 
to fancy her. I rather admire bis taste, not hers” 

“ Don’t you like dark women ? ” asked Effie, 
smiling. 

“ No.” 

u That ’s very emphatic.” 

u It ’s God’s truth. I like a woman to be fair, like 
— like the Madonna.” 

Full of her own thoughts, the girl hardly noticed 
the strange, eager tone in which this was spoken, nor, 
as her face was turned away, did she observe the 
passionate look upon the speaker’s face. Rough and 
overbearing, unused to female society, Douglas bore 
himself with an air which well justified Lady Bell’s 
description of him as “ a savage.” 

“ Though they are engaged,” she said after a 
pause, u I believe he does not really love her. It ’s 
the old story. Mr. Arthur is rich, but he has not 


E ifie Uetherington. 31 

wealth enough ; and he is marrying her — for her 
money.” 

“ Yes ? ” 

“ It is an arrangement between the two families. 
Dreadful, is it not ? When I think of such things, I 
am sick of the world ! ” 

Here a sound of horses’ hoofs, mingled with voices 
from without, showed that the riding party were pre- 
paring to take their departure. The next moment 
Arthur Lamont returned, ready for the journey. He 
hesitated for a moment on seeing Douglas, then said 
quickly — 

w You won’t delay, Effie ? We shall change our 
dresses directly we arrive, and join the party. If 
you are quick, you will be in the ball-room before 
midnight, after all.” 

This time Effie did not even turn her head, or 
make any reply, so with a “ good-night ” nod to his 
host, the young man hastily disappeared. 

“ Then there is company up yonder ? ” asked the 
laird. 

a Oh yes — a ball, a supper, and all the stupid old 
customs of Halloween. The tenants will all be 
there, and many of the so-called gentry. But I ’m 
sure I shall be too tired to dance ! ” 

Another sound of voices, a clatter of horses’ hoofs, 
and then old Elspeth returned, lamp in hand. 

“ Are they gone ? ” asked her master. 

“ Aye, they ’re gone,” was the reply. “ The clouds 


3 2 


Effie Hetherington. 


are clearing awa’, and they ’ll hae a grand ride. Eh, 
but she ’s bonnie and awfu’ high-manner’d is Lady 
Bell ! ” 

“ Shall we follow them soon ? ” said Effie, eagerly. 
“ I do hope we shall not be long behind.” 

ct I ’ll get the horse out at once,” replied Douglas. 
“ Do you, Elspeth, look after Miss Hetherington and 
prepare her for the drive. I sha’n’t be long.” 

And taking the lamp from Elspeth’s hand, he 
strode from the room. Thereupon the old woman, 
kneeling down, assisted Effie to draw on her shoes 
and stockings, which were by this time almost dry. 

u What a kind old soul you are ! ” cried the 
girl. “You ought to have been a lady’s-maid. 
But tell me, does Mr. Douglas keep no other 
servants ? ” 

u Is it the laird ? Na, na ; he ’s his ain butler, and 
his ain body-servant, and his ain groom. He ’s in the 
stable noo, harnessing the only beast he keeps — a 
beast that tholes only saddle and bridle, and not them , 
unless the rider is a laird o’ Douglas.” 

“ Then he is very poor ? ” 

“ No’ that puir neither,” returned Elspeth, drawing 
on the last silk stocking. “ Eh, lassie, your leg’s 
like white satin, and you ’ve a wee, wee foot, fit for 
Cinderella’s slipper! Ye’ll be ane o’ the Hether 
ingtons o’ Lochryan, I ’m thinking ? ” 

“Yes, Elspeth, and I’m kin to the lassie in the 
old ballad,” said the girl; and as she sprang up 


Effie Hetherington. 


33 


gaily, with the warm stockings and shoes on her 
feet, she half spoke, half sang, the old familiar 
lines — 

“And ‘Hey, Annie?’ and ‘How, Annie?* 

And ‘ Annie, winna ye bide ? ’ 

And aye the more he cried, ‘ Annie,’ 

The louder rair’d the tide !” 

M Save us a’,” cried Elspeth, admiringly. “ You ’re 
a strange lassie ! A wee while syne you were greet- 
ing, and sad and pale ; noo you ’re singing like a lintie, 
and looking bright as May morning ! ” 

Effie laughed, and patted the old woman on the 
shoulder. 

“ The storm ’s over,” she cried, u so why should 
the birds not sing ? ” 




3 


CHAPTER III. 


HOW EFFIE THOUGHT OF BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 

“ When Love gangs sowing his seed around, 

He flings it freely on the thorny ground} 

And the glad green shoots creep up mang stanes. 

On the barren moor, wi’ its mists and rains. 

But when Love walks over the flowery mead, 

Flings here awa’ a seed, and there awa’ a seed, 

And some are crushed under Love’s ain heel, 

And maist fare ill, tho’ a few thrive weel.” 

Jenny o’ the Knowes. 

I N less than ten minutes the kitchen door opened 
and the laird re-appeared. 

“Now, Miss Hetherington,” said he, “if you are 
ready — ” 

Effie was quite ready, and, indeed, was anxious to 
be gone ; so she rose to her feet at once, feeling very 
comfortable in her warm, dry stockings and shoes, 
and looked around for her cloak, which the laird 
hastened to bring and wrap around her shoulders. 

As he performed this service, Douglas marvelled at 
the change which had come over the girl. Her face, 
which but a little while before had been wreathed in 


Effie Hetherington. 


35 


smiles and bright as sunshine, was again sad and petu- 
lantly tearful. She was a young lady of many moods, 
and her moods changed as rapidly as the weather on 
an April day. 

While she sat in the kitchen, the centre of all 
interest and the recipient of honours which should 
have fallen to her kinswoman’s share, she felt pleased 
with herself, and consequently with every one about 
her ; but no sooner did she find herself compelled to 
jog wearily home under the laird’s escort than she re- 
gretted the tantalising spirit which had caused her to 
provoke her cousin so sadly. Above all, she felt angry 
to think she should have been prevailed upon to stay 
behind and allow her cousin to ride away by Arthur 
Lamont’s side. 

“ I can fasten the cloak, myself, thank you,” she 
said coldly, shaking away the hands of the laird, who 
was wrapping the mantle about her shoulders. 

Douglas moved back a step, looking very like a 
zealous hound which has received a blow from its 
master, but he said nothing. With trembling fingers 
the girl fastened the clasp of her cloak, then she 
looked critically at her host. 

“ Heavens, what an ugly man ! ” she thought. “ I 
really had no idea he was quite so horrid ! We ’re 
like — hem ! — Beauty and the Beast.” But she 
smiled loftily, and said, “Did you say the carriage 
was ready, Mr. Douglas ? ” 

“The carriage, such as it is, is at the door, Miss 


Effie Hetberington . 


3 6 

Hetherington,” he replied, “ and the storm has passed 
away.” 

As he spoke he threw the door wide open, as if 
awaiting her to pass out into the night. They had 
looked at each other only for a moment ; they had not 
uttered a word which all the world might not have 
heard. And yet, as the girl passed her host, she felt 
a strange chillness creep over her, and found herself 
wishing with all her heart that she was safely lodged 
in the Castle. 

u What a dreary-looking night ! ” she said, as she 
stood on the threshold peering out into the darkness. 
u Are you sure the storm has passed away ? ” 

Instead of answering her, the laird turned to his 
housekeeper. 

“ Hurry, Elspeth,” said he, “ and get some wraps ; 
the night blows chill after the storm ; and before we 
reach the Castle Miss Hetherington will be cold.” 

With a glance at the two, Elspeth moved away to 
do her master’s bidding, while Effie Hetherington 
remained upon the threshold looking at the convey- 
ance which was to take her home. As her eyes fell 
upon the vehicle her mood changed again ; her eyes 
sparkled with merriment, her lip curled ; she had 
much ado to restrain her laughter. 

The u carriage ” was neither more nor less than a 
broken-down, ramshackle “ gig,” which, judging from 
its appearance, might have been in the possession of 
the Douglas family for half a century or so ; and 


Ejjie Hetherington . 


37 


attached to this uninviting-looking conveyance was a 
shaggy, unkempt mare, more sturdy than beautiful, 
and the only thing in the shape of horse-flesh which 
was owned by Douglas. 

By a mighty effort young madam restrained her 
inclination to scoff. When Elspeth returned with 
the rugs, the girl was about to mount gravely into the 
gig, when she made another discovery. 

“ Why, there is no road ! ” she said. “We cannot 
drive over the Moss, Mr. Douglas. What are we 
to do ? ” 

The laird laughed. 

“ You ’re as fearful as a bairn and as wilful,” he 
said. “All you have to do is to trust yourself to me” 

Still the girl hesitated, for some tone in the voice 
of her would-be protector made her shrink from him 
more fearfully still. Noting her hesitation, Douglas 
continued — 

“ The bridle-path which we must follow stretches 
for half a mile, Miss Hetherington, then we come into 
the country road ; there is no need to be fearful. I ’ll 
lead the mare, since you seem not over-confident, till 
we reach the highway.” 

And before she had time to question this arrange- 
ment she felt herself lifted in the strong man’s arms 
and placed in the gig. She flushed nervously, and on 
the spur of the moment she felt inclined to resist what 
she considered a liberty, but a moment’s reflection 
convinced her of the extreme folly of such a line of 


3 § 


Effie Hetherington . 


conduct. So instead of giving any sign of disturbance, 
she set about making herself comfortable for her drive, 
rolled herself up in the rugs which Elspeth had brought 
to her, and told the laird he might go on. Douglas 
went at once to the mare’s head and seized the bridle, 
while Elspeth stood on the threshold of the kitchen 
and held the guttering candle on high. Thus the 
cavalcade moved away. 

Though the storm had cleared, the night was 
dreary enough, and, moreover, it was so dark that 
when once they had passed out of the range of light 
afforded by the flickering candle, Effie could see no- 
thing. The path was very spongy, and evidently full 
of ruts, for the gig jolted about like a country cart 
without springs. 

Presently the atmosphere became lighter ; the heavy 
clouds which had covered the sky broke up into jagged 
masses, from the edges of which the moonlight 
streamed forth. 

The girl, rolled up in her rugs, felt warm and 
comfortable, and her spirits began to rise. She fell 
to thinking of the sports and merry-making they were 
about to have at the Castle that night, and she began 
to wish they might get on with a little more speed. 
Presently the gig came to a full stop. They had 
passed over the Moss and gained the highroad. 

Douglas now took his seat beside the girl, and the 
mare trotted on. 

Since they had left the house not a word had been 


Effie Hetherington . 


39 


spoken, and even now the silence would have con- 
tinued but for the girl. As her companion gathered 
up the reins and cracked his whip, she heaved a little 

sigh. 

w That is better,” she said, as the gig began to roll 
smartly along. u Do you know, Mr. Douglas, I 
began to fear we should arrive at the Castle at the fag 
end of the fun ? ” 

“Would that have grieved you, Miss Hethering- 
ton ? ” 

“ Most dreadfully. Though I have no doubt that 
Lady Bell will be as disagreeable as she knows how to 
be this evening, that won’t affect me one bit. I mean 
to try all the charms. I shall even go to the length 
of looking in the glass to try and decipher the face of 
my future husband.” 

She paused, but he said nothing ; so after a moment 
she continued — 

w Do you ever keep Halloween at Douglas ? ” 

“ Never.” 

“ Ah, I suppose you would call that sort of thing 
frivolity. Yet you must be dull enough.” 

She shuddered, for as she spoke a vision of the 
lonely man in the lonely house rose up, a gruesome 
picture before her eyes. 

u I am lonesome,” said he ; “ but ’t is neither 
Douglas nor the moor which makes me so. Every 
man’s soul craves for human companionship — so 
does mine.” 


4 o 


Effie Hetherington. 


u You mean that you ought to marry,” said she, 
speaking very softly, but unconsciously shrinking still 
further from her companion’s side. 

cc I mean,” he said, w that I have found the one 
being who could make my life not only endurable 
but heaven upon earth ; ay, even if we two lived in 
a house a hundred times more dreary than Douglas, 
and never looked upon aught but the barren moor. 
Without her I shall always be what I am, — a lonely, 
miserable man.” 

He paused, but the girl was silent ; again that feel- 
ing of fear overcame her. She looked at the dreary 
waste around them in mortal terror. 

u Could you drive a little faster, Mr. Douglas ? ” 
she said, trying with all her might to master the 
trembling of her voice. u We are getting along so 
slowly that before we reach the Castle it will be 
midnight.” 

u Are you so anxious to be there ? Are you so 
happy at the Castle, Miss Hetherington ? ” 

“ Happy ! ” she echoed, with a hard, joyless laugh. 
M Do you call it happiness to be a poor relation ? 
When I found myself an orphan with fifty pounds a 
year and my rich kinsman offered me a home, I 
accepted gleefully, little dreaming what that offer 
meant; I soon discovered, however, I was to be a 
little better than a servant, but was not to receive a 
servant’s wage. I was to bear with all the ill hu- 
mours of my Lady Bell, and to take everything which 


Effie Hetherington. 


4i 


was not worthy of her acceptance ! Anything was 
good enough for Effie Hetherington. You see, Mr. 
Douglas,” she continued, after a pause, u I am just 
as lonely as you.” 

“ You are as lonely as I! ” he said, thoughtfully 
repeating her words. “ But tell me this, would you 
change your life and degrading dependence for one of 
independence if you got the chance ? ” 

She said — 

u It is like a conundrum, and I never could guess 
it. You see, Mr. Douglas, there are so many pros 
and cons — the life of independence which would be 
offered for my acceptance might be as terrible to me in 
its way as the life of dependence ; one never knows.” 

“You are a strange lass !” he said; and as he 
spoke, he gathered up into his broad, brown hand the 
slim, gloved fingers which were lying in the girl’s lap. 
The girl gave a cry of pain, and struggled to draw 
her hand away ; but though his grasp relaxed some- 
what, he would not let go his hold. He bent down 
quite near to her, and fixed his black eyes almost 
fiercely upon her face. 

“ What are you ? ” almost as if communing with 
himself. ct Are you a spirit, or are you a woman ? Tell 
me, Miss Hetherington, why do you dislike me ? ” 
cc I do not dislike you,” she said. 
u You do ; I see it in your eyes — in your shrink- 
ing form ! Look at you now ! If I were to loosen 
my hold you would throw yourself from the gig and 


42 


Effie Hetherington . 


fly into the darkness. Yes, sooner than remain with 
me, you would rush, God knows where ; and yet 
God knows I would not harm one hair of your head. 
What a frail little thing it is ! ” he continued ; “ see, 
I could crush you like a leaf! Do I harm you ? Do 
I give you pain ? And yet you fear me ! ” 

“ I wish you would hurry on ! ” she said, half 
laughing, half crying. 

u Why should we hurry ? ” he said. “ When we 
do reach the Castle, and you are gone, what will life 
be to me ? Did you understand what I said just 
now ? Did I make my meaning clear ? Do you 
know who it is who can make life brighter to me ? 
Ay, and even bring joy to Douglas ! ” 

“ Oh, pray do not ask me ! ” she said nervously ; 
“ I have been so upset by the storm. Indeed, it is 
not fair to talk to me in this way now ! ” 

He let go her hand, gathered up the reins, and 
urged the mare on. 

During the remainder of the drive not another word 
was spoken ; but when, at length, the gig pulled up 
before the door of the Castle, and Douglas, having 
leapt out to the ground, tenderly lifted down his 
companion, she turned to him with a smile. 

“ I will send for one of the grooms to take the 
mare, and you will come in and join us ? ” she said. 

But he shook his head. 

“ I must be driving home.” 

“ But surely — surely not without crossing the 


Effie Hetherington . 43 

threshold ! Do you fear to face Lady Bell ? She 
will be graciousness itself to you.” 

u I fear no man or woman ; but I have no place 
here.” 

u A wilful man will have his way,” she said. 
u Well, since it must be, it must, I suppose, so good- 
night ! ” 

She held out her hand, and the next moment 
regretted having done so. He seized it in both of 
his and covered it with kisses. 

“ Good-night, Miss Hetherington, and God bless 
you ! ” he murmured, and the next moment he was 
gone. 

For a moment or two the girl remained where he 
had left her, standing on the steps of the Castle ; she 
felt safe now, and could manage to laugh at the man 
who, a short time before, had inspired her with such 
fear. 

cc Mistress of Douglas,” she said at last, cc best 
beloved of its master, and proud possessor of the 
ramshackle gig and unkempt mare — what an honour ! 
How my sweet kinswoman, Lady Bell, would triumph 
to find her prophecy fulfilled ! The man is a savage 
creature ! I ’d as lief be caressed by a toad ! Never- 
theless, he may be useful — only in future I must avoid 
love-scenes on lonely moors ! ” 

A chilly gust of wind struck her on the cheek and 
made her shiver ; she ran lightly up the steps, and 
noiselessly entered the Castle. 


44 


Efjie Hetherington. 


Once inside, she paused again ; sounds of mirth 
issued from the servants’ hall, strains of music from 
the drawing-room. The fun was evidently well 
advanced — and she, who should have been at hand 
to help to entertain and amuse the guests, was still 
shivering in her half-dried clothes. 

A footman crossing the hall saw her, and immedi- 
ately made as if to open the drawing-room door, but 
she stopped him. 

“ I am going up to my room to dress,” she said ; 
w will you tell Lady Bell that I have returned ? 99 

She ran upstairs to her room. Here a bright fire 
was burning ; lighted candles stood on her dressing- 
table, while on the bed were spread out all the pretty 
things she was to wear that night. 

Hastily throwing off her cloak and hat, she went 
over to the window, opened it, and, leaning on the 
sill, looked out. How everything seemed to have 
brightened now that she was once more sheltered 
and safe ! The moon, which had been struggling 
to free her face from masses of broken cloud, now 
shone forth in all her splendour, lighting up the 
landscape with the vividness of early dawn. She 
could hear the distant flow of the river, and the cry 
of some startled wood birds suddenly awakened from 
their rest. She thought of the lonely man driving 
back to his lonely dwelling, and shuddered again. 
Withdrawing her head, she ran about to close the 
window, when there came a tap at the door. 


Effie Hetherington. 


45 


u Come in ! ” she cried. 

The door opened and a woman entered — Lady 
Bell’s maid. 

“ My leddy has sent me to help ye to dress, Miss 
Hetherington,” said she, in a half-familiar, half- 
respectful tone, u and she bade me tell ye no’ to 
delay. The Lord preserve us ! ” she cried, as she 
saw the open window ; “ do you wish to take your 
death ? ” 

Effie closed the window and walked leisurely over 
to the fire. 

“You may help me to dress, Maggie,” said she; 
“ but I don’t intend to hurry to-night for all the Lady 
Bells in the world. ” 

She took off her habit and sat down before the 
fire, while Maggie began to brush out her golden 
hair. 

Maggie Mitchell, who acted to Lady Bell in the 
capacity of maid, felt herself to be a privileged inmate 
of Castle Lindsay, for she had been in the service of 
the Earl for many years. She was a short, sturdy- 
looking woman of about five and twenty, with hard, 
determined features, and a pair of black eyes which 
seemed to read one through. 

“ It ’s a dour nicht for Halloween,” she said at last. 
“ There ’s nought but ill-humours ben the hoose, and 
storm without. Tell me, Miss Effie, what hae ye 
done to my leddy ? ” 

“To Lady Bell ? Nothing.” 


4 6 


Effie Hetherington. 


“ Weel, she ’s in a terrible temper, and sae ’s the 
Earl. He was angered that you were taken by the 
storm ; and then, when my leddy and the rest came 
without you, he was angered still more.” 

cc Things are going pretty badly down there, then, 
with so much ill-humour in the room ? ” 

“ Weel, they ’re a bit better now. Mr. Arthur has 
brought round Lady Bell ; but for a’ that she ’s no’ in 
the best of humours wi’ you.” 

u Who is down there, Maggie ? ” 

“ Oh, there ’s a goodly company in all ; the servants’ 
hall is just crammed full o’ the tenantry j while as to 
the drawing-room, they seemed to have gathered in 
frae far and wide. All the gentry frae hereabouts, and 
the Earl in the midst o’ them, looking like the king o’ 
them all.” 

“ And what are they doing — in the drawing-room, 
I mean ? ” 

u Oh, jest blethering. I jest peeped in when my 
leddy sent for me to tell you, and they seemed to be 
sitting like a lot o’ silly bleating sheep. Hearken to 
that ! ” she cried, as the sound of music floated up 
from below. u That ’s my Lady Bell’s touch ; I ken 
it in a thousand. Maybe her ill-humour has thawed 
before Mr. Arthur’s sunny smile. Eh ! but you look 
bonny,” continued she, as she eyed the girl from top 
to toe ; w wi’ that dainty dress on ye, and them satin 
shoon, ye might be a fairy. Won’t that be enough to 
waken up the ill-humours of my Leddy Bell ! ” 


Effie Hetherington . 47 

Effie laughed, and shrugged her pretty shoulders, 
then she smiled and nodded to the maid. 

“ I can manage now, Mitchell,” said she ; “ you go 
down and enjoy yourself in the hall.” 

w And ye ’ll no’ delay in coming down ? ” 
u I shall come as soon as I am ready, and I have 
not much to do.” 

The maid departed, and Effie was left alone. 

She still stood before the mirror, looking at herself 
and smiling. Her hair, fresh from a vigorous brushing, 
looked like a crown of gold ; her dress clung about 
her in diaphanous folds, and her neck and arms were 
bare. She had no diamonds, like Lady Bell, but her 
beauty was so lustrous that she needed none. Her 
lips were full and red, and when she laughed, which 
she did very often, her face became radiant, a dimple 
showed in her chin, and her teeth shone like ivory. 

“ Why should it be impossible ? ” she said, com- 
muning with herself. “ I am bonnie, though she is 
braw. It would be a triumph, my Lady Bell — a far 
different fate to becoming mistress of Douglas.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


HOW THERE WAS HIGH FEAST AT CASTLE LINDSAY. 

“ Fair and strange were the Fays to see. 

Busk’d like leddies o’ high degree $ 

And they took his hand and they led him ben, 

And they played the music that maddens men. 

In sarks o’ silk and robes o’ snaw, 


They danced around him with three times three. 
And the waefu’ man in the midst o’ a’ 

Smiled at the wondrous glamourie ! 

But the Fay o’ the moon was fairest there, 

And he glower’d at her een and gowden hair $ 


And wae is me 
For the glamourie. 


And wae is me for the heart’s despair ! ” 

The Shewe of Faire Fayes. 



FFIE HETHERINGTON had not exagge- 


* — J rated in the description of her life at Castle 
Lindsay. The only child of a distant . kinsman of 
the family on the female side, she had been received 
in the great house on the footing of a poor relation, 
and the chief business of her life had been to afford 
companionship to the EarPs only daughter, Lady Bell. 
It was not a lively house, for the Earl was a recluse, 
only going from time to time to Edinburgh or London, 
and making his stay there as short as possible. Of his 


Effie Hetherington. 


49 


two sons, Lord Lindsay, the son and heir, occupied 
himself chiefly in foreign flirtations, seldom or never 
boring himself by coming home, while the other, 
an officer in a Highland regiment, and quartered 
abroad, divided his time between drill, card-playing, 
and tiger-shooting. Lady Bell had of course u come 
out ” in due course ; but in a forlorn and watery manner, 
suggestive of the Caledonian climate, and had then 
gracefully retired to Scotland. 

The Earl of Drumshairn was a grim, somewhat 
melancholy man, who had been a widower for many 
years, and who inherited from Calvinistic ancestors a 
strong bias towards theological inquiry of the gloom- 
iest kind. He had written voluminously on religious 
subjects, and his polemic on the subject of w Predesti- 
nation, addressed to that doughty antagonist, the Rev. 
Andrew Muckleneb, of Glasgow, had made him fa- 
mous in the land. The greatest excitement of his 
life seemed at the period of the religious revivals, 
when the Castle became a hunting-ground for all 
the fanatics of the south of Scotland. As heartily as 
John Knox himself, for whom he had a respect ap- 
proaching to veneration, he hated and denounced the 
Church of Rome. 

All this strong Puritanical bias did not prevent the 
Earl from having a keen eye to the main chance, from 
preserving his game, protecting his salmon rivers, and 
reserving all his other privileges as lord of the land. 
Moreover, he was as proud of his birth and ancestry 
4 


5 ° 


Rffie Hethermgton . 


as any peer in Scotland. When he implored the Lord 
to be merciful to him, a sinner, and demonstrated that 
mortal man was to be saved by faith and not by works, 
he never doubted for a moment that saving grace was 
the hereditary possession of himself and all his family. 
Although quiet and severe in dress as a Free Kirk 
minister, he carried in his manner the grandeur of his 
lineage, and both when he summoned his retainers for 
morning and evening service, or when he said grace 
before and after meat, he conveyed to every onlooker 
that he was, by right of birth, in the personal confi- 
dence of the Almighty. 

His nephew, Arthur Lamont, was the child of a 
half-brother who had shared, or professed to share, the 
Earl’s religious views, and had on that account been 
forgiven a constant eclipse of worldly fortune. Arthur 
inherited a small estate in Tweeddale, and looked for- 
ward to Lady Bell’s dowry as a means of relieving the 
acres heavily encumbered by his father. 

Quiet and superficially amiable, he conciliated his 
uncle by agreeing with him heartily on all questions 
of theology, and, as Lady Bell had shown a strong 
fancy for him from childhood upwards, he was gloomily 
accepted by the Earl as her future husband. Never- 
theless, those who were more familiarly acquainted 
with the young man’s character failed to credit him 
with any superhuman virtues. He had seen a good 
deal of what is generally called “ life.” His private 
reading, when he read at all, was certainly not theo- 


Ejjie Hetherington . 


5 1 


logical. He found it frequently necessary, for purposes 
of business or study, to visit London or the Continent, 
and generally, when he returned, he looked fatigued. 

As for Lady Bell, she understood her lover thor- 
oughly, and liked him none the less because he was, 
au fond , neither religious nor ascetic. She was a 
sharp-sighted, energetic girl, without a single pious 
predilection ; and when, in the confidences of cousin- 
ship and courtship, Arthur told her awesome stories 
of his adventures in great cities, she was not in the 
least shocked. She knew a good deal about the world 
already through her brothers, and Arthur taught her 
more. She was quite convinced that marriage would 
complete her education. 

For a long time Lady Bell and Efne Hetherington 
had got along very well together, for both were young 
and full of the joy of life. 

They rode, hunted, studied, played, danced (on 
special occasions when dancing was permitted), and 
generally amused themselves in the gloomy house. 
When the Earl and his daughter went south to 
London or north to Edinburgh, Effie generally ac- 
companied them. The young ladies understood each 
other as perfectly as both understood Arthur Lamont. 
Only when little differences arose did either wear 
any mask ; generally speaking, they freely exhibited 
their caprices, their tempers, their love of adventures, 
and their detestation of formal religion. 

Latterly, however, their manner to each other had 


5 2 


Effie Hetherington. 


grown cooler and their conduct less confidential. 
Lady Bell became more shrewish and sarcastic ; Effie 
affected moods of long-suffering martyrdom. Effie 
assumed the airs of superior beauty, Lady Bell those 
of superior social position. 

The cause was not far to seek — Arthur Lamont. 

Now, both the young ladies, as I have said, under- 
stood Arthur thoroughly, insomuch that Lady Bell 
took good care to trust him in Effie’s company as 
little as possible; and that Effie, on her part, felt 
perfectly confident that no given pledge or tie of 
honour would prevent the young man from following 
his fancy at the first opportunity. Neither had the 
slightest respect for him on moral grounds. Both 
admired him intensely for his very deficiency in the 
popular virtues. He was handsome, amusing, and 
unprincipled — what other possible fascinations could 
hearty, vigorous, world-loving young women desire ? 

By the instinct peculiar to women, Lady Bell dis- 
covered her enemy. Disguise was utterly useless, 
and, to do her justice, Effie was open in her pretty 
warfare. The friend and companion, the merry con- 
fidante, was spreading her net of fascination for the 
engaged young man. The pauper was trying to run 
against the heiress. A spectator, especially of the 
male sex, would have seen nothing of all this, would 
never have suspected that such a race was being run ; 
but the two girls knew it, and Arthur knew it, secretly 
determining to avail himself of the complication. 


Effie Hetherington. 


53 


Scenes, of course, ensued — strong ones between 
Lady Bell and her lover, bitter and sarcastic ones 
between Lady Bell and Effie. Diplomacy, however, 
was necessary, as Lady Bell had really <c no case.” 
Although she knew perfectly well that Effie was 
angling for Arthur, and that he was secretly yielding 
to the fascination, there was nothing in their outward 
conduct with which she could openly find fault. 
More than once she determined, in her indignation, 
to break off the match ; and she would have done so 
had her hate for her rival been less. Moreover, in 
her own way she loved Arthur Lamont, and not 
even his palpable baseness had the power to cure her 
of her infatuation. 

She tried hard to get Effie away, but without an 
open declaration of war that was impossible. She 
could not confide in her father, whose first act would 
have certainly been to break off the engagement and 
show Arthur the door for ever. She determined, 
therefore, to keep her eyes open, and to hasten on 
the marriage-day. 

Things were at this stage on the night when they 
paid their memorable visit to Douglas. Never had 
Lady Bell been more vexed and irritated, and during 
the journey home with Arthur and the others she 
scarcely spoke a word. She had thawed a little, 
however, during the evening under Arthur’s soothing 
influence. 

Prettily attired in black, with trimmings of white 


54 


Effie Hetherington. 


lace, and with diamonds flashing in her hair, Lady 
Bell looked quite the belle of the assembly as she 
wandered to and fro on the arm of her fiance. Her 
triumph, however, was short-lived. Fair and bright, 
simply dressed in white cashmere, Effie Hetherington 
appeared, and all eyes were turned upon her. A few 
pearls were her only ornaments, and even these were 
needless. She was a perfect vision of youth and 
beauty, and poor Lady Bell felt extinguished in a 
moment. 

Smiling and blushing, Effie tripped up to her, and 
cried, with a nod to Arthur — 

u Here I am, you see, safe and sound ! And after 
such a journey ! You should have seen the ancestral 
chariot in which that awful man drove me home. It 
was as comical as the doctor’s one-horse shay ; and I 
thought every moment it would share the same fate 
and go to pieces.” 

u You are a little ungrateful,” answered Lady 
Bell, with a toss of her head and a flash of her dark 
eyes. “ Mr. Douglas is a gentleman, and put him- 
self to great inconvenience on your account. You 
were quite as well able to ride home as I was.” 

“ I was simply terrified ! And, really, I ’m not at 
all ungrateful, for I was only joking.” 

“ I hope you had the courtesy to ask Mr. Douglas 
to come in ? ” said Lady Bell, coldly. 

4C I did ask him, and he refused. He ’s not very 
sociable.” 


Effie Hetherington. 


55 


“ Sociable or not,” was the reply, u he 's of gentle 
blood, and can trace his lineage as far back as any 
gentleman in the county. My father has a great 
respect for his family, and would have been pleased 
to see him, I ’m sure.” 

“Well, he's a savage sort of fellow,” interjected 
Arthur ; “Effie 's right there ! ” 

Lady Bell gave him an angry look, and then 
observed, smiling maliciously — 

“ I think Effie is throwing away a good chance. 
If she played her cards well, she might be Mistress 
Douglas.” 

“ Thank you ! ” cried Effie, with a laugh and a 
little mock curtsey ; but her eyes met Arthur's, and 
seemed to say, “ You see how spiteful she is, and I 've 
no one to take my part ! ” 

At that moment there was a movement near the 
door of the room, and everybody seemed to look that 
way. Following the general gaze, Lady Bell saw, to 
her astonishment, the very man of whom they had 
been speaking standing near the threshold. He was 
still clad in his coarse, ordinary dress, but it was clear 
that he had had recourse to soap and water and a 
clothes-brush ; his hair, too, was brushed carefully, 
and though he certainly looked a little uncouth and 
out of place in so fine a company, there was some- 
thing in his powerful face and deep, thoughtful eyes 
to proclaim him no common man. He was leaning 
quietly against the wall, looking towards Effie and 
her kinswoman. 


5 6 


Effie Hetherington. 


“ Why, look ! ” said Lady Bell, u your cavalier is 
here, after all.” And, without observing Effie’s look of 
annoyance, she drew Arthur with her towards the door. 

u I ’m so glad, Mr. Douglas,” she cried, holding out 
her hand, “ that you ’ve not gone away without allow- 
ing us to return your hospitality. Effie was just 
telling us that you ’d driven back home.” 

u I changed my mind,” answered Douglas, with 
a grim smile. “ I halted at the inn yonder, and 
came back. I must ask you to forgive my dress, for 
I ’ve had no time to make myself presentable.” 

“ Why, of course ! ” said Lady Bell, looking radiant. 
u Besides, this is Liberty Hall to-night. If you ’re for 
a dance, I claim you as my partner ! ” 

Arthur looked at his cousin in wonder. What did 
she mean by gushing so absurdly over this savage? he 
asked himself. Essentially conceited and shallow, he 
knew little of women. Had he known more, perhaps 
his adventures with them would have been less for- 
tunate. It is the man of power and insight who, 
penetrating to the sources of female caprice, and 
reading the female heart like a book, stands aghast at 
his discoveries, and lets slip each golden chance. 

In answer to Lady Bell’s last chance, Douglas 
replied — 

cc I fear I must leave you to those with more grace 
and lighter heels. But I thought the Earl, your 
father, thought dancing a pagan institution, to be 
religiously forbidden.” 


Effie Hetherington. 


57 


“ Then you wronged him altogether,” said Lady 
Bell. u My father, it is true, does not approve of 
dancing in general, and religibusly forbids the waltz. 
In times of festival, however, and particularly at 
Halloween, he concedes the country dance, tolerates 
the quadrille, and approves the reel. You shall see 
for yourself, for I insist on presenting you to him.” 

Thereupon, resigning Arthur’s arm and taking that 
of the laird, she sailed across the room to the place 
where the Earl was standing, surrounded by several 
members of the nobility and gentry and two elderly 
clergymen. 

a Papa, I want to introduce Mr. Douglas.” 

The Earl smiled and bowed, while a whisper, not 
unaccompanied by smiles and titters, ran round the room. 

u Mr. Douglas of that ilk, I presume ? ” said the 
Earl, gravely. M Sir, I am glad to know you. I 
knew your father weel, though latterly, just before 
his lamented death, we met but seldom.” 

A wonderfully gracious speech, seeing that the last 
laird had borne so dubious a character ; but with the 
master of Lindsay Castle a thimbleful of sound doc- 
trine outweighed a cartload of moral delinquency, and 
the laird, although a hard drinker, had been a doughty 
Presbyterian. 

“ And please, papa,” cried Lady Bell, cc we all owe 
Mr. Douglas a debt of gratitude. The storm caught 
us when riding over the Moss, and the laird gave us 
a princely welcome ! ” 


58 


Rffie Hetherington. 


Princely ! Douglas opened his eyes and gave his 
grim smile. Then several other members of the local 
aristocracy, encouraged by the Earl’s approval, claimed 
or made acquaintance with the newcomer, insomuch 
that his rough attire and home-bred manners were 
temporarily forgotten. Murmurs concerning him 
passed round the room. u A man of birth and gentle 
breeding, though eccentric and solitary.” u Dare-the- 
Deil’s son, ye ken, and as wild, they say, as his father.” 
a Aye, a bachelor ; they say he ’s a meesogynist, and 
hates women-folk.” “ A handsome man, and proud 
as handsome ! ” “ Lord save us all ! see till the mud 

on his boots ! ” 

With no little consternation and annoyance Effie 
had witnessed the advent of Douglas. She had had 
quite enough of the man, at least for one day ; and 
when Arthur Lamont, finding his opportunity when 
Lady Bell made the presentation to the Earl, strolled 
over to her, she whispered, shrugging her pretty 
shoulders, u He looks like one of those phlegmatic 
Indians in Cooper’s novels, does n’t he ? ” 

u Savage enough, if that ’s what you mean,” re- 
turned Arthur, languidly ; “ but you took care to 
linger behind and enjoy his company.” 

w Nothing of the kind. I lingered behind because 
you were tiresome, and Lady Bell was in a temper ! ” 
“ See ! he ’s glowering at you. I believe he ’s a 
cannibal ! ” 

Before the conversation could go any further 


Effie Hetherington . 


59 


Douglas came over, accompanied by Lady Bell, who 
was still graciousness itself. 

“ See, Effie, I ’ve brought you Mr. Douglas. You 
must show your gratitude by entertaining him as 
much as possible. u Arthur,” she added, w papa is 
asking for you.” 

And she led away her captive, leaving Douglas and 
Effie face to face — Effie flushing crimson and fully 
aware of the secret of Lady Bell’s graciousness, 
Douglas feasting his black eyes on the girl’s tran- 
scendent beauty. 

“ You hear? ” he said. “ I ’m to be entertained. 
How do you propose to set about it ? ” 

w I ’m sure I don’t know,” answered the girl, fully 
conscious that all eyes were upon her. u You ’d better 
let me take your arm, and I ’ll show you over the place.” 

Glad to get away, she hurried him from the room 
through the ante-chambers, along the lobbies, and on 
to the servants’ hall. But she had scarcely a word to 
say ; she was thoroughly out of temper at Lady Bell’s 
trick upon her. 

w How close it is ! ” she cried presently. “ Come 
this way, where we can get a little air.” 

She led him to the foot of the grand staircase, close 
to the front door, which stood wide open. The moon 
was shining brightly on the threshold, and there Effie 
paused, full in its beams. 

“ My God ! how beautiful you are ! ” cried Douglas, 
gazing upon her in wonder. 


6o 


Effie Hetherington . 


She shrank back angrily, for she was in no mood 
for flattery, and the man’s savage admiration irritated 
her beyond measure. 

u Pray don’t talk nonsense, Mr. Douglas ! ” she said. 

cc I ’ll not talk at all if you ’ll let me stand and look 
at you.” 

u Thank you, I ’m not an object for exhibition, and 
I object to being stared out of countenance. Perhaps 
you ’d like some refreshment ? If so, go to that room,” 
pointing up the lobby, w and you ’ll find everything 
you wish.” 

u I wish nothing ! ” he cried. 

“ Then if you ’ll excuse me, I ’ll leave you. I must 
really go now.” 

He did not answer, but continued to gaze silently 
upon her. Then, as she turned to go, he suddenly 
took her hand. 

w Effie ! ” he cried, and seemed about to draw her 
to his breast. 

With an angry gesture she drew herself away, and 
ran, rather than walked, back into the drawing-room. 
u Eflie, indeed ! ” she said to herself. u The savage 
is getting on ; but it ’s all Lady Bell’s fault, and I ’ll 
never forgive her ! ” 

Left alone, Douglas did not stir, but leaning back 
against the door, and folding his arms, gazed up at the 
moon. His face shone, his features seemed trans- 
formed. He looked like a man who had seen some 
miraculous vision, and so indeed he had. Through 


Effie Hetherington. 


61 


his troubled brain as he stood there rang the wild sea- 
music of the old ballad : — 

“ And 4 Hey, Annie ! ’ and 4 How, Annie ! ’ 

And 4 Annie, winna ye bide ? ’ 

The lig’t grew dark, the moon grew stark. 

And gurly grew the tide. 

44 And 4 Hey, Annie ! ’ and 4 How, Annie ! ’ 

And 4 Annie, come hither to me ! ’ 

And aye the mair that he cried 4 Annie,’ 

The louder rair’d the sea ! ” 

He had never felt so happy, never so miserable. 
What he yearned and prayed for seemed so near to 
him now, and yet so far away. 

Meantime, Effie Hetherington had rejoined the 
company, and was endeavouring with all her might to 
forget her annoyance. When the dancing began in 
the great hall, she looked round in terror, lest she 
should find her pertinacious admirer still at her elbow j 
but he did not appear. 

“ What have you done with Mr. Douglas ? ” asked 
Lady Bell. 

“ I think he has gone home,” replied Effie. u I ’m 
sure I hope so ! ” 

Lady Bell made inquiries, and ascertained from 
some of the servants that the laird had indeed left the 
Castle, seemingly with no intention of returning. 

u I suppose you *ve driven the poor gentleman 
away,” she said in an aside to Effie. 


62 


Effie Hetherington . 


“ Indeed, I ’ve done nothing of the kind ! ” was the 
reply. u I was perfectly civil to him, Lady Bell ! ” 

“ Oh, yes, of course ! ” cried Lady Bell, smiling, 
and very contemptuously. 

Effie Hetherington was not a young lady of angelic 
disposition, and every angry impulse within her was 
stimulated by her kinswoman’s manner, so that the 
delicate lines of her face were hardened, and the rosy 
hue of life faded altogether out of her cheeks. Have 
I pictured this chameleonic young lady in such a way 
as to bring her visibly before the reader ? If not, it 
is time to try, though analytic description seldom 
succeeds in conveying the proper impression of a 
human face. 

Her hair was the colour of dark gold ; it was cut 
short at the back, but dressed in small crisp curls over 
her forehead — the frons minima of the ancients. Her 
eyes seemed blue, but were in reality shot through 
and through with grey shadows, with the faintest 
possible threads of absolute yellow \ like herself, they 
were changeful and chameleonic — blue when she was 
merry or pitiful, grey when she was sad or thoughtful, 
cat-like when she was very angry. Her nose was 
small and well formed, but slightly retroussj , and below 
it was a veritable rosebud of a mouth, with the full 
underlip so well described by Suckling, “ Some bee 
had stung it newly.” The chin was prominent, the 
jaw somewhat square, both giving an impression of 
determination which the mouth and nose contradicted. 


Ejjie Hetherington. 


6 3 


The head was balanced forward on a strong, firm 
neck. The shoulders were broad for a woman ; the 
breasts small ; the waist slight and firmly laced ; the 
arms long and finely formed, and the lower portions 
of the frame large and finely rounded. Neither hands 
nor feet were small, but both matched the tall and 
lissome body. 

Such a description, with all its contradictions, 
conveys nothing of the infinite charm of the girl’s 
personality. No feature of it could be set down as 
perfect, yet the total effect was lovely. Gentle yet 
arbitrary, tender yet self-willed, physically timid, and 
morally reckless, passing with the rapidity of lightning 
from one mood to another, Effie was simply, as I have 
said, chameleonic. If her caprices were infinite, so 
were her graces. She was the sort of woman a 
stupid man would fathom (or think he fathomed) in a 
moment ; whom a moderately intelligent man would 
shrink from as impracticable and incomprehensible ; 
and before whom a man of power and insight would 
admit the impotence of any possible analysis. 

It was growing late, close, indeed, upon midnight, 
when Effie separated herself from a crowd of admirers, 
and ran upstairs to her bedroom. She had been 
planning all the evening, ever since the departure of 
Douglas, how to get away from the house unseen ; 
for, like most persons of superior intelligence and 
vague moral impulses, Effie was superstitious. Draw- 
ing back the blind of her window, she saw that the 


6 4 


Effie Hetherington. 


moon was shining brightly, and all without looked 
* tempting for the old-fashioned charm she was about 
to try. 

Opening a drawer, she took out a ball of thick 
silken thread, and, laughing nervously, thrust it into 
her bosom. 

Pausing again, she returned and looked into the 
mirror. Catching sight of the pale reflection of her 
face, she felt her heart throbbing fearfully, but with 
another nervous laugh she hastened from the room. 


CHAPTER V. 


HOW EFFIE INVOKED THE GHOST. 

“ Lad and lass, to-night beware ! 

There is magic in the air! 

“ Winds are crying shrill, and, hark! 
Ghosts are groaning in the dark! 

“ Who will dare this Hallow night 
Leave the happy ingle light ? 

“ Who will dare to stand alone, 

While the fairy thread is thrown ? 

“ Who this night is free from fear, 

Let her ask, and she shall hear! ” 


The Northern Wooing. 


ERY quietly Effie crept down the stairs until 



* she reached the great hall, which she found 
quite empty and deserted. The door stood wide 
open, revealing a glimpse of the moonlit lawns and 
flower-beds, with the gloomy woods beyond. The 
wind was still loud, and from the boughs that tossed 
drearily against the sky came the dreary u sough ” 
which mimics so well the mournful wash of the sea 
upon the shore. 


5 


66 


Rffie Hetherington . 


Pausing a moment on the threshold, she looked 
out nervously. All was dark and still, save for that 
strange wind music ; but from within came loud 
laughter and many voices from the kitchens, and 
gay music and sound of dancing feet from the ball- 
room above. 

The air was very chill, and Effie wore only her 
white ball dress, so that her neck and arms were bare ; 
her feet, too, were thinly covered with dancing-shoes 
of satin. Running back into the hall, where over- 
coats, cloaks, and wraps of all sorts lay awaiting their 
owners, she took down a heavy fur-cloak belonging to 
one of the guests, and threw it over her shoulders. 
Then with a little nervous laugh she ran out into the 
night. 

Crossing the lawn, and turning to the right among 
the shrubberies, she followed a gravel path which 
wound along under the shadow of stately elms. In 
a moment she was in almost total darkness ; but, 
looking up, she could see the moonlight just touching 
the topmost leaves with glints of frosty silver. Her 
heart began to beat nervously, for she dreaded the 
darkness and was very superstitious ; but she ran on 
like a frightened deer, quite unconscious of the pools 
of wet rain which already soaked her shoes and stock- 
ings through. Darker and still darker it grew, as the 
moon passed in behind a cloud. 

Suddenly she paused in terror, thinking she heard 
footsteps behind her. She glanced round, listening, 


Effie Hetherington. 6 7 

and saw only a great wall of blackness, heard only the 
deep-sea music overhead. 

u I was a fool to venture,” she thought ; cc but I ’ll 
see it through.” And she ran on, holding up her 
white skirts with one hand, and feeling her way with 
the other. Fortunately, she knew the path well, 
and in a few minutes she heard the sound of the 
waterfall prisoned in the heart of the wood. The 
words of the old charm rang wildly in her ear : — 

“ Your back to running water. 

Throw out the silken skein j 
Then glower into the darkness. 

And you ’ll see your true love plain ! ” 

She was still so near to the Castle that she could 
just hear the distant music, and away behind her, 
through the boughs, she saw the lights of the ball- 
room glimmering faintly. But the music and the 
brightness yonder seemed only to deepen the loneli- 
ness and darkness of the surrounding woods. 

“ I wish I had never come,” she sighed. u I don’t 
want to see my true love, for indeed I know him and 
he knows me. Of course it ’s all nonsense. I ’ve a 
good mind to run back.” 

But a little space before she saw the woods opening 
on the moonlit space at the foot of the fall, and, 
tempted by the brightness, she went on and stood by 
the waterside. 

Here the moonlight shone full upon her, shimmer- 
ing on her golden hair and white satin dress ; and 


68 


Ejfie Hetherington . 


though the linn roared above her, and the air was full 
of the deafening sound of the falling water, she saw 
the open sky and felt somewhat reassured. 

Still trembling from head to foot, she placed her 
hand in her bosom and drew out a small ball of silken 
twine. 

How her heart throbbed ! How her head swam ! 
Dizzy with the sound of the waterfall, and sick with 
fear, she turned her back on the dark pool at the foot 
of the linn, and faced the woods, the black boughs of 
which she could almost touch with her outstretched 
hand. Then laughing hysterically, she took between 
the trembling fingers of her right hand one end of 
the twine, and prepared to throw the ball into the 
darkness. 

She tried to speak, though her tongue and throat 
were dry and parched with terror ; but mastering her 
emotion, she cast away the ball, which unwound 
itself as it flew through the air. 

Gripping the loose end of the thread convulsively, 
she managed to murmur, almost inaudibly — 

“True love, true love, if there you be, 

Ere I count wi’ three times three, 

Grip the silk and answer me!” 

Scarcely had the charm left her lips, when to her 
horror something in the darkness tugged softly at the 
silk. 

She drew back with a cry, but her fingers still 


Effie Hetherington. 69 

closed upon the silk ; she felt it held firmly at the 
other end. 

Half fainting, and scarcely knowing what she did, 
she murmured desperately — 

“True love, true love, if there you be, 

Ere I count wi’ three times three. 

Show thy living face to me ! ” 

Was she mad or dreaming ? Straight before her, 
just where the moonlight touched the edge of the 
wood, she saw — or thought she saw — the outline of 
a human face framed in the dark foliage with two 
great dark eyes fixed upon her ! It was only for a 
moment, but in that moment she recognised, or 
seemed to recognise, the features of the gloomy laird 
of Douglas ! 

Panic-stricken, half swooning, she uttered a wild 
scream, and, dropping the thread in horror, fled away 
along the path back to the Castle. 

Fear seemed to give her wings, and still uttering 
faint cries, she flew along like a mad thing. Thank 
God, she could see the lights far away, and every 
moment brought her closer to them ! 

But as she went she heard, or seemed to hear, the 
sound of footsteps behind her, and a voice crying — 

w Stay ! Effie ! Effie ! ” 

The sound, or the fancy, only made her run on 
faster. 

Through the darkness, on and on she flew, until 


7 ° 


Effie Hetherington. 


she reached the edge of the lawn, and saw the lighted 
and open door. Rushing through the moonlight, 
across the lawn, she saw a figure standing on the 
gravel path, and recognised Arthur Lamont. 

“ Arthur ! ” she cried, wildly stretching out her 
hands. 

Then with a hysterical laugh she fainted, and would 
have fallen had he not caught her in his arms. 

In her terror and hysteria she did not notice Lady 
Bell, who had been standing on the threshold talking 
to her lover as he smoked his cigar. 

u Who is it ? ” cried Lady Bell. 

“ Effie Hetherington,’’ answered the young man, 
throwing down his cigar and supporting the girl’s life- 
less form. “ I declare, Bell, she ’s fainted away ! ” 

So saying, he carried her into the hall and placed 
her in a chair. Attracted by the sounds, several 
servants flocked from the kitchens, and a number of 
ladies and gentlemen, who had been cooling them- 
selves on the stairs, descended, murmuring in astonish- 
ment. Pale as death, but shivering tremulously, Effie 
lay back, supported on the young man’s arm. 

Lady Bell looked on in no very gracious mood, 
while water was brought and sprinkled over the girl’s 
face. Then followed the usual details of a young 
lady’s fainting fit — inanition, spasmodic tremors, 
gradual recovery — until, finally opening her eyes and 
looking around her, Effie covered her face with her 
hands and began crying hysterically. 


Effie Hetherington. 


7 1 


“ What does it mean ? ” cried Lady Bell at last. 
u Effie, I will have an answer ! Where have you 
been ? What have you been doing ? Speak ! ” 

“ Give her time,” said Arthur Lamont ; “ she ’s not 
herself yet. Something has frightened her, I fancy.” 

A sympathetic murmur came from the assembled 
groups. 

“ There is no end to her follies,” Lady Bell ex- 
claimed. u She is more like a mad creature than a 
Christian girl ! Why, look ! her feet are soaking ; 
she has been out in the woods ! ” 

At last Effie ceased sobbing, and looked wildly up 
into Lady Bell’s face. Her breath still came and 
went convulsively, and her heart was wildly leaping 
in her bosom. 

w Oh, Lady Bell, forgive me ! ” she moaned. u I 
ought never to have — to have gone. I thought it 
only a piece of fun, but I have been so terribly 
frightened ! ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Lady Bell, sharply. 
u What frightened you ? Was it lightning this time, 
or what ? ” 

“ No, no ! It was — a face ! ” 

“ A face ? ” 

“ A face in the woods. I wanted to try the old 
charm, and I ran down to the linn and cast the 
thread ; and, oh ! some one gripped it ; and I heard 
a voice ; and I saw — I saw — the face ! ” 

This explanation, terrible as it seemed to the 


7 2 


Effie Hethermgton. 


speaker, only elicited a general laugh. Every one 
present knew the familiar superstition, and many a 
fair lady there had longed to try the charm, but had 
lacked the courage. 

“ What nonsense ! ” cried Arthur Lamont. “ Why, 
Effie, I thought you had more sense than to believe 
in such rubbish. There, there, you ’re all right now.” 

u Pray whose face did you see ? ” asked Lady Bell, 
with a sneer; for she was annoyed at her lover’s 
great solicitude and attention. u Was it a man’s or 
a bogie’s ? ” 

u A man’s,” replied Effie, shuddering. 

“ And your true love’s, of course, Effie Hethering- 
ton ! I hope it realised your expectations. But, 
remember, you should have kept your own counsel. 
Since you ’ve told everybody what you were doing, 
you ’ve destroyed the charm altogether, and maybe will 
not get a sweetheart at all, much as you seem to want 
one ! ” 

“ I don't want one,” cried Effie, angrily, in the 
midst of another general laugh. “ I only tried the 
charm for fun, and you have no right to say I want 
a sweetheart ! It is very unkind. ” 

.“Don’t tease her, Bell,” said Arthur, nervously. 
“ It was only a piece of fun, as she says.” 

cc Of course, of course ! ” chimed in several voices. 

“ And if I ’ve broken the charm,” continued Effie, 
Cl indeed, then I ’m very glad ; for the face I saw — and 
I did see it, Mr. Arthur — was no living creature’s. 


Effie Hetherington. 7 3 

Don’t talk of it any more ; I can’t bear to think of 
it. It ’s too dreadful ! ” 

Loud screams of laughter and clapping of hands 
now sounded from the servants’ hall, where the merri- 
ment was evidently at its height. Everybody began 
to move in that direction, and Lady Bell touched 
Arthur on the arm, and signified her desire that he 
should accompany her thither. With a pitying 
glance at Effie he obeyed. Though several young 
men, who had been gaping in the background, there- 
upon stepped forward and offered Effie a sympathising 
audience, she paid no heed to them whatever, but 
followed her cousin and Arthur with her eyes until 
they disappeared. Then she drew a deep breath and 
set her white teeth together, forgetting all her recent 
fright in the bitterness of jealous pain. 

u Shall I get you a glass of sherry wine, Miss 
Hetherington ? ” said a spruce young farmer, dressed 
within an inch of his life, and assuming for the nonce 
the airs of a high-bred cavalier. 

u Eh, but you look awful pale ! ” cried another. 

“ And no wonder ! A drop of whisky would 
maybe be better, for the young lady ’s wetted 
through.” 

u No, no ! ” she exclaimed impatiently. “ I ’m 
quite well now. Pray do not mind me — go and 
amuse yourselves.” 

At this moment she saw the Earl descending the 
staircase, with an elderly lady, splendidly plumed and 


74 


Effie Hetherington. 


brocaded, hanging on his arm. As he reached the 
hall his eyes fell on the little group, and he beckoned 
Effie to him. 

“ What nonsense is this, Miss Hetherington ? ” he 
said. u I hear you have been alarming the whole 
company by pretending to see an apparition.” 

He spoke with a strong Dumfriesshire accent, and 
pronounced it M appareetion.” 

“ Indeed,” replied Effie, “ I meant no harm. I was 
trying a charm, and — and ” 

“ Toots! you area foolish lassie! Your religion 
should teach you that such things are only folly and 
supersteetion. Belief in ghosts and warlocks is 
against the very letter of Scripture, and worthy only 
of the Dark Ages.” 

u Certainly,” cried the old lady, his companion ; 
“ but young folk will be young folk — and it ’s 
Halloween ! ” 

w In my young days, madam,” said the Earl, 
u Halloween was a holy and solemn time, not a 
heathen festival. Times are changed since then, and 
even I, you see, must drift with the times. Not that 
I forbid a few innocent sports and games, but I 
abominate supersteetion.” 

The old lady laughed, and the two moved away 
towards the servants’ hall, whither the young men had 
also drifted. Effie stood there alone in the great hall, 
hesitating whether she should follow or creep off to 
bed. Curiosity to see what Arthur Lamont and 


Effie Hetherington. 


75 


Lady Bell were doing conquered her first impulse 
to retire. By this time she had almost recovered her 
composure, though every now and again she thought, 
with a shudder, of the face she had seen beneath the 
linn. 

u Surely ’t was my fancy ! ” she thought. u That 
horrible man was in my thoughts, and so, when I 
tried the charm, his face came uppermost. I ’ll never 
forgive Lady Bell for mocking at me ! Maybe it 
will be my turn next to laugh at her” 

More laughter and shouting, louder clapping of 
hands, came from within. She moved along the hall 
in the direction of the sounds, and came face to face 
with Jeanie Munro. 

u What are they doing ? ” asked Effie. 
w Playing at c Hey, Willie Wine,’ ” answered the 
girl ; “ baith the servant lasses and the young leddies. 
The Earl ’s looking on, as solemn as if he was in 
kirk ; and noo Miss Jess, the schoolmistress, has the 
floor, and has called out Mr. Arthur himsel’.” 

Without staying to hear another word, Effie ran 
along the lobby till she reached the entrance of the 
servants’ hall, which she found blocked up with a 
laughing throng. Standing on tip-toe, and peering 
over the shoulders of her neighbours, she saw that the 
tables had been cleared away, the forms arranged in a 
great semicircle round the fire, while the company, 
of all ranks and descriptions, seated and standing, 
were gazing delightedly at the two leading actors in 


7 6 


Effie Hetherington. 


an old Scottish game. At a little distance stood the 
Earl, gravely looking on, while standing before the 
fire, and facing Arthur Lamont in his dress suit and 
silk stockings, was Miss Jess Forsyth, a bright-eyed, 
buxom woman of two or three and thirty, with a 
merry eye and a sharp tongue. Close by, leaning 
against the ingle, was Lady Bell. 

“ Bide a bit, Mr. Arthur,” Miss Jess was crying ; 
<c bide a bit, and I ’ll fix ye yet.” And fixing her 
eyes on one of the dairymaids, who blushed and hid 
her face at the mention of her name, she chanted as 
follows : — 

“ I’ll gie ye Mary, frae Cumell braes; 

She ’ll milk thy kye and wash thy claes! ” 

The laugh went round at the doggerel, improvised 
for the occasion. Arthur Lamont joined ; then, draw- 
ing himself up, he waved his silk handkerchief, and 
replied : — 

“ Mary ’s bonnie and Mary ’s bright, 

Her cheese and butter are clean and white; 

She ’s made for a farmer, and not for me; 

But I thank you for your courtesie! ” 

“ Bravo ! bravo ! ” cried many voices, and the 
laugh went round again. 

The schoolmistress glanced round, and began 
anew — 


Rffie Hetherington. 


77 


“ Hey, Willie Wine, and ho, Willie Wine, 

I hope frae home you ’ll no’ incline; 

You ’d better ’light and stay all night. 

And I ’ll gie thee a lady fine.” 

To which Arthur replied in the usual formula — 

“ Who will you give me if I bide, 

To be my bonnie blooming bride, 

And lie down lovely by my side ? ” 

This time Miss Jess’s choice fell on a tall spinster 
of uncertain age, the only daughter of a wealthy 
tenant farmer on the Earl’s estates. 

“I’ll gie thee bonnie Miss Dalrymple, 

She ’s tall and fair, she ’s sweet and simple; 

On her cheek there’s a rose, in her chin a dimple! ” 

This brilliant effort elicited roars of delight, in 
which every one but the spinster in question joined. 
Not at all nonplussed, young Lamont bowed to the 
lady, and replied — 

“ Miss Dalrymple is a lady rare, 

Her temper ’s sweet, and her face is fair; 

But she ’s made for Tam Peebles , and not for me. 

So I thank you for your courtesie! ” 

Roar upon roar from all the company. The 
spinster was by no means beautiful, and her temper 
was considered none of the sweetest ; while Tam 
Peebles was a young doctor of medicine, who was 


7 § 


E fjie Hetherington . 


supposed, with a sly eye to the main chance, to be 
paying her his addresses. 

The schoolmistress looked round wickedly, and 
was prepared for the coup de grace , with which the 
somewhat monotonous game invariably ended. She 
hemmed solemnly, and lifted up her forefinger, as she 
chanted — 

“ Then what do you say to Lady Bell ? 

She ’s straight and lively like yoursel! ” 

Arthur smiled, and walking over to Lady Bell, he 
bowed, took her by the hand, and led her into the 
centre of the semicircle, saying — 

“ I ’ll set her up in this heart of mine, 

I ’ll feed her well upon cakes and winej 
She ’s for no other, but just for me, 

So I thank you for your courtesie! ** 

Then, to the huge delight of all present, he took 
her round the waist and kissed her three times, while 
she struggled and blushed for pleasure. 

Effie Hetherington saw it all, and her lips went 
white and her eyes grew hard as steel. Then some 
one spoke to her, but who it was she could scarcely 
tell : she was so full of her own nervous vexation. 
The scene swam before her. She saw, as if in a 
dream, the grooms bearing in two great tubs full of 
water and placing them in the corner of the hall. In 
the tubs floated large rosy-cheeked apples, for which 


Effie Hetherington. 


79 


the younger members of the company were to 
“ dook,” or duck. Meantime the centre of the hall 
was being cleared for dancing. Two pipers and 
three fiddlers, throned on a long table at the end of 
the room, began tuning up, while the company 
busied themselves choosing partners. 

Young Tam Peebles had the honour of being 
selected by Lady Bell to lead off the country reel. 
All this Effie saw, and was looking on vacantly, when 
she felt a touch upon her arm, and found Arthur 
Lamont standing at her side. 

u Effie, where have you been ? I want you to be 
my partner,” he said, smiling nervously. 

u I ’ll not dance to-night,” she replied, turning her 
head away. 

But he persisted, and while she was hesitating she 
saw Lady Bell looking at them both across the hall. 
Eager to assert herself against her rival, whatever 
might be the result, she suffered herself to be led 
upon the floor, and took her place among the dancers, 
opposite her partner. 


CHAPTER VI. 


HOW THE SPELL GREW. 

« Winged mouse wi’ mossy wing, 
’Ware the sun, ye limmer ! 

Bats should sleep when laverocks sing, 
Warm wi’ light and simmer.” 


Old Song. 


HAT night was one to be marked by a blood- 



X stone in the calendar of a man’s life, never to 
be effaced from the memory, never to be forgotten by 
the Soul. 

At once happy and despairing, blest and tormented, 
Douglas feasted his eyes on Effie Hetherington until 
he could bear to look no more ; then, as she was 
whirled round in the dance by Arthur Lamont, he 
crept away from the Hall, and returned gloomily 
home. 

The dawn was dimly breaking as he approached his 
lonely dwelling. After unharnessing his horse with 
his own hands and leading it into the tumble-down 
stable, he wandered down to the sea-shore, and, pacing 
the sands, watched the grey waters of the Solway 


Ejfie Hetherington. 


8 1 


tumbling in, tumultuous as his own thoughts. The 
sun broke at last crimson red, suffusing earth and sea 
and sky, and hung low in the heavens like another 
great bloodstone, blinding him with its rays. 

Thenceforward, for several nights and days, his 
spirit was full and running over with a strange 
delight. He no longer felt lonely, even when most 
alone. All the incidents of that memorable evening 
repeated themselves to him again and again. He had 
only to stand by the sea, or to sit by the fire, or to 
open a book, and the girl’s face arose before him ; the 
heavens all night were full of her eyes, and the earth 
all day was conscious of her breath. 

In his brooding imagination he reached out his 
arms and called her to him, and though she still shrank 
from him in terror, she seemed half yielding to the 
spell. He laughed to himself as he thought of her 
pretty fear, little realising yet what the fear meant. 

Possibly enough, some potent brain-wave passed 
from him to her, for as surely as he was thinking of 
her, so were her thoughts turning to him. More 
even than the majority of her sex, Effie loved admira- 
tion, and admiration even from the wild man, a 
notorious misogynist, was not altogether to be 
despised. Amid her dull life at the Castle, where she 
was tortured daily between pride and jealousy, she 
again and again thought to herself, “ There ’s one 
over yonder who would come to the beckoning of my 
finger, and eat the crumbs from out my hand ; ” and 
6 


82 


Effie Hetherington. 


though he was a dour man, not comely to look upon, 
neither curled nor scented nor soft-spoken, she longed 
for his presence, simply that she might realise her 
woman’s power. 

Of course, affection for such a monster was out of 
the question. Her feeling towards him physically 
was one almost of repulsion. But women can do 
what men ever find impossible — take pleasure in the 
worship of the other sex, even when it is offered by a 
being who is personally repellent. 

So it came to pass, in the most natural way pos- 
sible, that Douglas was drawn over to the outskirts of 
Castle Lindsay, and that there, as if by accident, after 
two or three visits which only ended in disappoint- 
ment, he came face to face with Effie Hetherington. 
She was coming along the highroad from the village, 
and found him moving somewhat sheepishly near to 
the Castle gate. 

u Mr. Douglas ! ” she cried, affecting a pretty 
astonishment. “ So you ’ve come over again at 
last.” 

u Does that surprise you ? ” he asked, smiling. 

“Well, no,” she returned, answering the smile 
with a look of pleasure. “ I thought you ’d come, 
sooner or later. Are you going on to the Castle ? ” 

Douglas shook his head. 

“ Did you walk over ? ” she continued brightly ; 
and on his answering “Yes,” proceeded, “At any 
rate, I ’m very glad you ’ve come. It ’s awfully dull 


Ejjie Hetherington . 


83 


yonder, as you may imagine. A pair of engaged 
people and an old Cameronian of title are not very 
amusing company. Do you remember the pleasant 
drive we had that night ? It was so nice of you to 
bring me over ! ” 

All this in a breath, as if in sheer ebullience of 
gaiety. All the time she spoke, nevertheless, she was 
taking stock of the man, and thinking, u I was right ; 
he ’s perfectly rough and savage.” Not one word did 
she speak of a suspicion that had been haunting her 
mind, and which connected Douglas itself with the 
apparition she had seen when trying the charm that 
Halloween ; but she added to herself, u If he dared 
to play that trick upon me, I ’ll pay him out for his 
presumption.” 

That meeting passed away uneventfully enough, 
but it was followed by other meetings at somewhat 
long intervals. 

When the autumn waned and the snows of winter 
began to fall, Effie Hetherington went away for some 
months, in company with Arthur Lamont and Lady 
Bell, to visit kinsmen in Edinburgh. There she had 
a pleasant time, with many to flirt with and much to 
think of, and it was not often that she thought of 
Douglas. Twice, however, she wrote to him — pretty 
little notelets on pink scented paper, beginning — “ Dear 
Mr. Douglas,” detailing a little trivial gossip of the 
city, and ending, “Yours truly, Effie Hetherington.” 
The last of these missives contained the following 


8 4 


Effie Hetherington . 


postscript : — “We shall be back at Castle Lindsay 
early in February, and I hope that you will be at 
home, and we shall meet again. I never forget how 
kind you have been to me, who have scarcely a friend 
in the world. How is old Elspeth ? Give her my 
love. I suppose you have been snowed up ? ” 

That was all, but it sufficed to keep the flame 
burning in the man’s heart. Douglas treasured up the 
dainty scraps of paper, read the pretty writing over 
and over again, and drank intoxication through both 
sight and touch. Was the charm working ? Would 
this dainty woman ever be his to have and hold ? He 
thought of her, he dreamed of her, he was perpetually 
conscious of her spell upon him, and there was nothing 
else in the universe but one sweet face and form. 

So the dismal house was not dismal, and the lonely 
man was never alone. Storm and sunshine were alike 
to him ; he was safe in the heart of his self-sufficing 
passion. Out on the wild sea-shore, or away among 
the desolate moors, or at home among his books, he 
was ever full of the same yearning — for Effie 
Hetherington’s return. More than once he was 
tempted to go to her, to take her in his arms, and 
to ask her to become his wife. He wrote to her 
again and again — long, wild letters worthy of a school- 
boy in love — but the letters were never sent. Once 
only he despatched a letter, and that was in answer to 
the letter with the postcript. It contained only two 
words — u Come back.” 


Effie Hetherington . 


85 


February had passed away, and the winds of March 
were blowing when Effie Hetherington returned. She 
came to Castle Lindsay, and the birds of the air 
carried the news of her coming to Douglas, but she 
herself made no sign. In simple truth, her pretty 
head was full of other thoughts. Lady Bell and she, 
fatigued with the excitements of Edinburgh, were 
both a little petulant and out of temper. 

A fortnight passed, and Douglas, conscious of her 
near presence, suffered agonies, listening for the foot- 
fall which never came. With characteristic fortitude, 
however, he waited patiently, thinking always, “ To- 
morrow, to-morrow we shall meet.” At last he rode 
over, left his horse at a neighbouring inn, and boldly 
strode to Castle Lindsay. He had scarcely passed the 
gates when he met Effie coming from the Castle. 
Her face looked radiant at his approach, and all 
Heaven showered down upon him as they shook hands. 

“ At last ! ” said Effie, smiling. “ I thought you 
were never going to call.” 

“ I waited for you” he answered. “ I thought — ” 

“That I would come to you ? Well, I did think 
of doing so, but it would n’t have been comme il faut. 
Besides, I ’ve been so busy, and so — so worried . Lady 
Bell is worse-tempered than ever, and you know my 
dependent position.” 

u Where are you going ? ” asked Douglas, after a 
long pause, during which he had been gazing steadily 
into his companion’s face. 


86 


Effie Hetherington . 


u To the village — anywhere — nowhere in par- 
ticular. I came out simply to get away from Lady 
Bell. ,, 

“ Then we ’ll walk together,” said Douglas. w I 
wish to speak to you. I ’ve been waiting all these 
months.” 

She glanced at him from under her long eyelashes, 
and knew by instinct what was coming. With a 
little frisson of apprehension, she moved along by his 
side. He was trembling like a leaf, his lips were 
bloodless, his mouth dry as dust, and again and again, 
before he found speech, he moistened his lips with the 
tip of his tongue. None of these signs of complete 
nervousness were lost upon Effie ; but although she 
felt proud of her mastery over the man, she felt for 
him nothing but a pretty contempt. 

“ How different,” she thought to herself, “ to Arthur 
Lamont ! ” 

They had passed out of the lodge gate, and were 
strolling along the open highway, before Douglas 
blurted out his confession. 

M Effie,” he said, w I want you to become my wife.” 

Without replying, she walked on, her eyes fixed 
upon the ground. She did not even seem to be sur- 
prised or startled. Trembling through all his frame, 
he attempted to take her hand. 

“ Please don’t ! ” she cried petulantly, turning away. 

w Did you hear what I said ? ” he asked, trying in 
vain to meet her eyes. 


Ejjie Hetherington . 


87 


u Yes, Mr. Douglas,” she replied, without a tremor, 
u I did hear you, and I ’m sorry to have done so. I 
hoped and prayed so much that you would never spoil 
our friendship by such words.” 

He paused as if stupefied, so far off was he still 
from understanding the woman on whom he had set 
his soul. 

M Effie,” he said, “ you knew from the first — you 
have known all along — that I loved you, and I ’m here 
to-day to have your answer. Out with it ! Yes or 
no ? Let it be yes, and I ’m the gladdest man God 
ever made. Let it be no, and I ’ll take my Hell from 
you just as I would have taken Heaven ! ” 

As his old manner asserted itself, and the strength 
within him bore down the first gaucherie of one un- 
accustomed to such confessions, her respect for him 
returned, and instead of replying to him cruelly, as 
she had been tempted to do, she prevaricated. 

“ You have taken me by surprise. I would rather 
not answer you — at least, give me time.” 

“You’ve had time enough, and so have I ! ” he 
exclaimed. % “ I ask you again to become my wife. 
God knows I ’ve little to offer you, either in goods or 
gear, and God knows too, I ’m not the man to take any 
lass’s fancy. But I ’ve set my heart here , and staked 
my soul as well ; and I ’m yours, Effie, for the damn- 
ing or the blessing ! ” 

“You are a strange man,” was Effie’s somewhat 
irrelevant reply. 


88 


EJfie Hetherington. 


cc So you told me long ago. Well ? ” 

She turned suddenly, and looked full into his eyes. 

u Of course you know it is impossible,” she said. 

u How — how ? 99 

w In the first place, I ’m not for marrying — I much 
prefer to remain as I am. In the second place, Mr. 
Douglas, I could never like you in that way.” 

His brow frowned, and his face became clouded, 
but his gaze remained full on hers. She continued 
with more decision — 

“ I am sure you wish me to speak the truth. I 
have never thought of you, I could never think of you, 
as girls think of possible husbands. There is no one 
in the world whom I esteem more as a friend, but 
when you speak to me of love or marriage, I feel 
nothing but repulsion. I know that it is horrid for 
me to say it, but in that way you repel me more than 
any man I have ever met.” 

He staggered as if under a blow, and seemed about 
to fall ; then, regaining command of himself, he cried 
hoarsely — 

u That ’s enough. Good-bye ! ” 

And before she could utter another word he was 
walking rapidly away. Startled and surprised, she 
called to him, but he did not seem to hear ; and in a 
few minutes he had disappeared. 

Three or four days passed, during which Douglas 
remained buried in his lonely home. I pass over the 


Effie Hetherington. 


89 


man’s sufferings, which could only be described in the 
old cant phrase, “ The torture of the damned.” But 
one morning, as he stood gazing at the sea from his 
dwelling, the post brought him this letter, under the 
lithographed heading, u Un petit mot ” — 

u I must speak to you. Pray come and see me again. 
1 shall not he happy until I ’m forgiven. — E. HP 

A few hours later he was over at Castle Lindsay. 
She saw him from the house, smiled, and came forth 
to meet him, prettily dressed in a new spring costume, 
and carrying a parasol. They shook hands without a 
word, but he felt a gentle pressure which stirred all 
the life within him. Side by side they stole down the 
broad walk, and, turning into a quiet pathway, wan- 
dered towards the Castle woods. 


CHAPTER VII. 


HOW THE CUSHAT CROONED. 

“ Have ye heard the croon of the cushat creep 
Through boughs of a leafy dell ? 

Like the cushat’s call, from the boughs of sleep 
(Deep! deep! deep! deep!) 

The faery murmur fell.” 

HEY walked on until they entered the shadow 



A of the woods, she leading and trailing listlessly 
her parasol, he following and feasting his eyes upon 
her form. The foliage all around them was full of 
the chatter of life ; from time to time a rabbit scuttled 
across the path, or a squirrel ran up the fir-trees. 
Dominant over all sounds was the thick, amorous cry 
(deep ! deep !) of the wood-dove. 

She was the first to break the silence. He would 
have let it throb on for ever ! 

She paused, turned, and laughed, looking him full 
in the face. 

“ How quiet you are ! ” she said. u Haven ’t you a 
word to say for yourself ? ” 

He shook his head and tried to smile, but all he 
could do was to look at her, with that lifelong hunger 
she knew so well. 


Effit f Hetherington. 


9 1 


“ Shall I tell you more about Lady Bell ? ” she 
asked lightly. “Well, I think she hates me worse 
than ever, and all because so many of the men-folk 
think me entertaining. And her worst temper is 
shown whenever I and Mr. Arthur snatch a word 
together. Yesterday I was playing in the drawing- 
room — some old German music — when he came in 
and sat down and listened. I declare he had n’t even 
spoken. But Lady Bell found us there, and was 
awfully angry.” 

It was silly sooth, but to Douglas it was the music 
of the world. He listened, as if to the beating of his 
own heart. Deep ! deep ! sounded the coo of the 
cushat overhead. 

u It ’s strange, after all, that she should dislike me 
so. I never willingly offended anybody, and I used 
to be quite fond of Lady Bell. She is planning and 
planning to get me out of the house, and I ’d oblige 
her if I knew where to go. But I ’m a helpless sort 
of thing. It all comes of being a woman. You men 
have much the best of it. You can do what you 
like, go where you like, see what you like. Oh, how 
I should love to see the world, the great cities ! the 
wicked places, like London and Paris ! Lady Bell 
is going to Paris for her honeymoon. When I think 
of that I almost hate her.” 

There was a rude wooden seat some twenty yards 
away from her, and as she spoke she sauntered to it, 
and sat down, hanging her head and picking the mossy 


92 


Effie Hetherington . 


sward with the end of her parasol. Thick boughs of 
fir and larch darkened the air above and around her, 
and on every side gathered the thick undergrowth of 
nut-trees and brambles. 

He sat down near to her, and almost instinctively 
she drew a little away. 

“ Do you hate me as much as ever ? ” he asked in 
a low voice. 

u How stupid of you to ask such a question ! You 
know I don’t hate you at all. It is n’t likely, or I 
should n’t ask you to meet me and have these long 
talks.” 

“ But you know what folk would say if they saw 
us sitting here together ? ” 

She looked quickly at him with her clear blue eyes. 

“ I suppose they ’d say that we were lovers, or 
ought to be,” she replied, laughing. “ But I neither 
know nor care what they would say, for what does it 
matter to me ? It amuses me to have some one to 
talk to, and you ’re such an excellent listener.” 

“Yes, when you’re speaking,” said Douglas. 
u Come, we ’re good friends, at any rate ? ” 

“We shall always be that, I hope.” 

“ And nothing more ? ” 

u Nothing more,” she replied with decision. u I 
think by this time that you ought to understand that 
thoroughly. I ’ve told you again and again.” 

He rose to his feet, trembling violently, his eyes 
burning, his face an ashen white. 


RJfie Hetherington. 


93 


u Don’t tell me again now ! Don’t, when we ’re 
alone together, far away from the sight of any human 
soul ! ” 

tc I ’m not afraid,” said Effie gently, <c for I know 
well you ’d never harm me.” 

“ Harm you — harm you ? ” he cried, looking up- 
ward. “ Hear her ! hearken to her, God in heaven ! 
I could crush her in the palm of my hand, I could 
kill her as easily as a butterfly, and she cries to me, 
with a voice like the cry of a bairn, 1 1 ’m not afraid ! ’ 
Answer me,” he added, turning to her, “ what is there 
hateful about me ? Why do you smile upon me and 
yet shrink from me ? Why do you tell me to meet 
you, and bring your troubles to me, and then make 
me suffer the torments of the damned ? ” 

As he spoke he reached up with his powerful arms, 
tore down a great branch of an overhanging large 
tree, and rent it in his quivering hands. His face 
was convulsed with a savage pain. 

u Oh, you ’re impossible ! ” she said, rising. “ I ’ll 
go home.” 

But he faced her on the pathway, looking at her 
with the shaggy torso and bloodshot eyes of a moun- 
tain bull. 

“ You sha’n’t go till I ’ve done with you ! ” he cried, 
while she shrank back angrily. “ What is there to 
prevent me from taking you in my arms and making 
you mine for ever ? It would be justice, I tell you, to 
crush and break you as I crush and break this branch 


94 


TLffie Hetherington . 


of a tree ; and if I did, no one would pity you, for 
you deserve no pity. You play with a man’s soul as 
if it were a ball of sewing-silk, to toss to and fro, to 
wind and to unwind, as the humour pleases you. Do 
you know what you are doing, woman ? Do you 
know what devils you are conjuring up ? ” 

Pale with fear or anger, she drew herself erect and 
looked him firmly in the face. 

“ If you mean that I have ever said I liked you — 
more than as a friend — you are doing me an injus- 
tice. I ’m not a coquette ! ’ 

“You are — and worse!” he answered between 
his set teeth. 

u If that is your opinion of me, Mr. Douglas, we 
had better not meet again. I was wrong — I relied 
on your friendship. I thought — but there, why need 
we discuss it any more ? Suffer me to pass.” 

He drew aside, and she passed him by ; then turn- 
ing on the path, she prepared, in the manner of 
virgins, her Parthian shafts. 

u I was always honest with you. I told you I 
could never like you — as you wish. I tried hard 
not to wound your feelings, and I did not say how 
strongly you repelled me. Perhaps I should have 
done. Perhaps I should have said, as I feel, that of 
all men living ” 

“ Cold and heartless, as I know,” he muttered, 
interrupting her. 

“ I ’m neither ! I ’m not cold, and I ’m not heartless. 


Effie Hetherington. 


95 


I ’m a woman, with a woman’s passions, I suppose. 
But when you asked me to be your wife, I shuddered 
as if something horrible had walked over me. Even 
the touch of your hand was sickening to me ; and 
when I thought you cared for me as you said, I felt 
degraded — horrid ” 

u Stop there ! Stop ! ” he groaned out of the 
anguish of his heart. “ Stop and go — go ! I wish 
to hear no more ! ” and, throwing himself on the seat, 
he hid his face in his hands. 

There was a long silence, filled only with the 
murmur of the woods and the cushat’s solitary cry. 
When he looked up, haggard and broken, she was 
still standing there, looking at him with her wistful 
blue eyes. 

With a gesture of agony he motioned her away. 

u Why are you so unreasonable ? ” she said, return- 
ing and sitting near him. <c Why do you compel me 
to seem so unkind ? I detest myself when I say such 
things to you, but you really make me.” 

His face was turned from her, and he did not 
answer ; but, peeping over his shoulder, she saw one 
thick tear clinging to his eyelids. In an impulse of 
pity she reached out her little gloved hand and touched 
him on the shoulder. 

“ Mr. Douglas ! ” 

Commanding himself with a supreme effort, he 
turned his face towards her. 

“ Well ? ” 


9 6 


Effie Hetherington. 


“ I want you to forgive me. I want you to under- 
stand that I am really sorry for you, and that I — I 
respect you. Why cannot we be friends ? ” 

He looked at her intently. 
u We can, if you will swear one thing.” 

“ Yes ! ” 

“To meet me often — to let me see you, feel your 
breath upon me — to tell me everything you think and 
do — to show yourself to me as to your own looking- 
glass, concealing nothing — to say to yourself always, 
4 1 ’ve one friend, one confidant, Richard Douglas ! 9 ” 
“ I should love that,” she answered, smiling. “ Oh, 
I ’ll promise ! I ’ll swear ! ” 

“ But one thing you must not tell me. I warn you 
now, as you ’ve warned me" 

“ And what ’s that ? ” 

“ If ever you give your love to another man, don’t 
tell me that ; don’t tell me his name.” 

Quite herself again by this time, Effie pouted 
amiably. 

“ Then it won’t be half a confidence. I think my 
father confessor ought to be the first to know. Why 
must I not tell you ? ” 

“ Because ” 

He paused ; his eyes still fixed upon her, but his 
face all heavily lined and shadowed, his lips set tight. 
“ Because ? ” she questioned. 

“ Because,” he answered, “ if you do, I shall kill 
him — be sure of that.” 


Effie Hetherington . 


97 


“ Oh, that ’s perfect nonsense,” she cried, rising. 
“ You talk as if we lived in the Dark Ages ! Besides, 
you ’ve no right to interfere with my happiness ! ” 
And she thought to herself, using even in thought 
her favourite expression, “ The man ’s horrid ! I wish 
we ’d never met.” 

“ I cannot answer for myself,” said Douglas, u so 
I ’ve warned you. God knows I want you to be 
happy ! And I think if my own death could help 
you, I would give you my life as freely as I ’ve given 
you my love. But I could n’t bear to see another man 
gain what I have lost, or rather, what was never mine. 
I envy the very air you breathe — the very dress that 
clings about you ! There ’s nothing in God’s universe 
but you, Effie ! ” 

A love so overmastering, so tender, might have 
touched the quick of pity in another woman, might 
have made another woman ask herself, “ If, after all, 
my happiness lies here ? ” But Effie, though touched 
in a way, asked herself no such question. No great 
impulse, no tide of tumultuous feeling, ever coursed 
along those gentle veins, and no cry of the soul had 
power to stir her nature suddenly to any mood of 
spiritual insight. 

She was flattered, even moved, by the man’s devo- 
tion ; she enjoyed beyond measure, and not without 
sympathy and pity, the spectacle of his humiliation ; 
but although she was a girl of infinite caprices, her 
physical instinct always mastered her and was in the 
7 


98 


Effie Hetherington. 


ascendant. Douglas repelled her on the sensuous side, 
and that, to a person of her temperament, was all- 
sufficient. As she watched the grandeur of his agony, 
she could not help reflecting how infinitely more pleas- 
ing were the lightsome good looks of shallow, masculine 
beauties like — like Arthur Lamont. 

And yet, with all this, the man’s companionship, 
her secret meetings with him, their frequent misunder- 
standings, his strength and weakness, filled her with 
a delightful sense of possession — such a sense as Circe 
may have felt when her naked foot was set on the 
neck of a new worshipper, whose human lineaments 
were slowly changing into the likeness of a beast. 
She would have been very miserable, for a day or two, 
if they had parted altogether; for something risque 
and fascinating would have gone out of her life. She 
was sharp-sighted enough, moreover, to realise fully 
that the man’s passion was far from being merely brutal. 
She saw clearly enough that it was her soul (or what 
he thought her soul) that he was agonising for, far 
more than for the possession of her person ; that one 
ct I love you ” from her lips would have almost suf- 
ficed to still the tumult of a lifetime ; that he would 
have been content, as it was, to sit passively and look 
at her for ever, if he could have been certain of her 
love. 

It was her repellence of him from the sensuous side 
that maddened him into the more brutal forms of 
passion. That, also, she knew well. One word or 


Effie Hetherington. 


99 


look of spiritual love would have turned him into a 
lamb, tame and gentle and unaggressive. But with 
the secret refinement of cruelty which exists in the 
majority of pretty women, and in all light women, 
she loved to see the lion rage, even though it meant 
her own peril. 

“ I must go now,” she said falteringly. w They ’ll 
be wondering what has become of me.” 

Douglas made no reply. His eyes were turned 
away, dark with thought. 

cc Good-bye,” she added softly. 

Still not looking at her, he answered, “ Good-bye ! ” 
Then the dew went up into her eyes, and she went 
close to him and held out her hand. He took it and 
held it in his powerful grasp, and looked up into her 
face with the eloquence of despair. At that moment 
she felt very, very pitiful, and bending quickly down 
to him, she kissed him quickly — first upon one 
cheek, then upon the other. 

u There ! ” she said hysterically. u Now will you 
forgive me, and think I ’m sorry ? ” 

The touch of her lips, cold and passionless though 
they were, unlocked the floodgates of his heart, so 
that the tears coursed down his cheeks, and, fairly 
sobbing, he held her hands to his lips and kissed them 
wildly. She made no resistance, but waited until he 
had recovered his self-command, when, releasing his 
hold upon her and passing his hand across his eyes, 
he rose up with a look of determination. 


IOO 


Effie Hetherington . 


“ That ’s over,” he said. “ Oh, my angel, my 
darling, don’t think me a coward — don’t despise me 
for what you ’ve seen this day.” 

“ I don’t think you a coward,” she answered 
gently ; “ and of course I don’t despise you. I like 
you very, very much.” 

“ I know, I know,” he cried with a touch of his 
old savagery. “ Don’t let us talk about it any more, 

“ < When we fell we aye gat up again, 

And sae will we yet ! ’ 

as the song says, and every man must dree his weird.” 

“ Of course,” she said, as they walked back side 
by side, w and every woman. I ’m sure I ’ve got to 
dree mine, for my life up yonder is positively detest- 
able. By the by, Mr. Douglas, I ’ve often wanted 
to ask you a question. Was it you who played the 
trick upon me when I tried the charm in the woods 
at Halloween ? ” 

Douglas nodded. 

u It was rather horrid of you, was n’t it ? I was 
so terribly frightened. I really thought at first it was 
your wraith, and I made a terrible fool of myself, 
before Lady Bell and them all, when I got back to 
the Castle. What ever made you think of such a 
thing ? ” 

“ My folly.” 

cc Y ou wanted to frighten me ? ” 

“ No ! that would have been but poor comfort. 


Effie Hetherington . 


IOI 


Don’t talk about it. It is n’t a pleasant recollection 
to either of us.” 

They walked silently on, through the lengthening 
shadows of the wood. Instinctively, as they went, 
Douglas placed his hand upon her arm. 

“ Oh, don’t do that, please !” she exclaimed. u I 
can’t tell you how I dislike it ! ” 

To her surprise, Douglas, instead of yielding peace- 
fully, uttered a savage oath, and strode on in front of 
her. 

“ Try to behave like a gentleman,” she said. 
u After all, you are one, I suppose ? ” 

“ I ’m not” he answered with a coarse laugh. 
“ I ’m Richard Douglas, of Douglas, whom God 
cursed from the cradle. Do you know what I shall 
do when we part ? ” 

“No — what ? ” 

“ Ride into Dumfries and get drunk, as my father 
used to do. Perhaps I shall be lucky, like him, and 
break my neck on the road home.” 

“ How horrid of you to talk like that ! ” 
u I am horrid, as you call it ; I begin to think 
you ’ve taken all human likeness out of me. I feel 
an ugly animal, top to toe ! ” 

u Then I ’m sorry I kissed you. I hate ugly 
animals.” 

u Quite right, Effie. Hate me ; that ’s the way to 
save me.” 

“And I object to your implying that Pve made 


102 


Fjffie Hetherington. 


you one. You’ll say next that I’ve taught you to 
swear ! On the contrary, I ’ve civilised you, that ’s 
what I ’ve done — I ’ve civilised you. Living all 
alone in that barbarous place, with that witch-like old 
woman, you were fast forgetting your duties as a 
member of good society.” 

He laughed loudly, and looked at her ; her face 
was shining quite merrily. 

u What a little chameleon you are ! ” he cried. 
u Sing something to me to drive away care and the 
devil ! ” 

She took him at the word, and, tripping along, sang 
in a low voice a verse of an old country song : 

“ Awa’ frae me now, Sawnie lad. 

And dinna fash me mair; 

We a’ ken weel your purse has gowd 
And that your hand has lair — 

But for your siller and your lair 
I dinna care a flea; 

My love is Tam the shepherd boy, 

Who whistles o’er the lea!” 


As the last notes passed from her lips, she saw to 
her astonishment two figures standing in the road 
beyond the wood — Arthur Lamont and Lady Bell. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


HOW EFFIE PREPARED FOR WAR. 

“ * It ’s war to the knife,’ said the bonnie wee wife, 

‘ It ’s war to the knife,’ said she j 
And she faced the rair o’ the rushing waves, 

Kilting her coats to the knee. 

But the waves rose up, and the tide crept ben, 

And wringing wat fell she j 
For tho’ the lass had the strength o’ ten, 

’T was fechting the muckle sea! ” 

Old Song. 

I T was clear that the sound of voices and of singing 
had arrested them as they were passing along the 
highway. Lady Bell was smiling curiously and saying 
something sarcastic to her companion, whose expression 
betokened no little astonishment, if not annoyance. 

“We’re caught ! ” whispered Effie, flushing crim- 
son ; then, commanding all her resources in a moment, 
she ran on quickly, and passed through the white gate 
leading into the road. Douglas followed slowly, 
scowling from right to left. 

“ Dear me, Effie, where have you been ? ” said Lady 
Bell, still smiling. “We wondered what wild thing 


104 


Effie Hetherington. 


was singing through the woods. I see you ’ve company 
— Mr. Douglas, is it not ? ” 

u Yes,” panted Effie. w We met by accident, 
and ” 

u Of course,” said Arthur, with a dry laugh. 

Lady Bell was looking towards Douglas, who had 
paused at the gate; so Effie cast a rapid glance at 
Arthur, and made a little gesture of supplication. 

“ Good-day, Mr. Douglas ! ” exclaimed Lady Bell, 
with increased amiability. “ I ’m glad the hermit has 
been tempted from his mossy cell, and that you ’ve 
come over to Castle Lindsay at last. But what a 
charming concert you ’ve been having ! ” 

“Yes,” said Douglas, smiling grimly. 
u I was strolling through the woodland,” cried Effie, 
“ when I found Mr. Douglas seated there reading. 
You may imagine my surprise.” 

Lady Bell nodded. 

“ Oh, quite ! An agreeable one, I ’m sure — you are 
such old friends ! I hope, Mr. Douglas, you are going 
up to Castle Lindsay ? ” 

“No; Pm going on to Dumfries.” 

“ But you ’ll come soon, won’t you ? My father 
will be glad to see you, I know, for he loves the old 
county families, does n’t he, Arthur ? ” 

“ Immensely,” said Arthur, with the same dry laugh 
as before. 

It was an uncomfortable meeting ; between the two 
men, as between the two women, there was a rapidly 


Effie Hetherington. 


10 S 

changing current of irritation. Effie had now grown 
quite pale, and her under-lip was quivering angrily, 
for she knew that Lady Bell was twitting her 
unmercifully. As for Douglas, he felt a strong 
impulse to say or do something savage. Instinct told 
him that the handsome young aristocrat, delicately 
formed and perfectly dressed, placed him at a cruel 
personal disadvantage. So, without making any reply 
to the lady’s invitation, he came out into the road, 
lifted his hat to Lady Bell and Effie, and walked 
slowly away. 

u You’d better run after him, Effie,” said Lady 
Bell. u He ’s mad with us for interrupting your 
tete-a-t&te” 

“ How unkind of you to talk like that ! I scarcely 
know the man, and our meeting was quite accidental.” 

u Really. As you came down the footpath you 
looked like a couple of lovers. Well, there ’s nothing 
to be ashamed of. Many a lass would jump at the 
laird.” 

“ I ’ve no intention of jumping at him or anybody,” 
protested Effie. 

“ See, he ’s looking back ! He has evidently some- 
thing more to say to you, and Arthur and I are clearly 
in the way. Come, Arthur.” 

And with a smile of delighted malice Lady Bell 
took the arm of her betrothed and walked away, 
leaving Effie nonplussed in the centre of the road. 
Neither looked back for a long time, and when they 


Effie Hetherington . 


106 

did so the girl was still standing irresolute, looking 
after them. 

“ She ’s detestable,” she said to herself, feeling very 
much inclined to cry. w But never mind. If I 
choose to meet Mr. Douglas, it ’s my affair, not hers. 
What shall I say to Arthur this evening ? I can’t 
tell him that the horrid man loves me, and is my 
confessor-in-ordinary ! ” 

At last, summoning up resolution, she walked 
rapidly along the highway, round a bend of which, 
where the cross-roads met, she found the laird waiting. 

“You’ve got me into trouble,” she said angrily. 
w I shall never hear the last of this. Already, as you 
must have seen, she is coupling our names together.” 

u That ’s an honour to me,” returned Douglas, 
u though a barren one. That puppy was of the same 
mind, and made me feel inclined to thrash him for his 
impudence.” 

w Good-bye,” said Effie, pausing suddenly, looking 
white to the very lips. u You had better not see me 
any more — at least, not here. If I have anything to 
say to you I ’ll ride over to your place.” 

The man’s eyes glistened. 

cc Promise to do that, and I shall have something to 
look forward to.” 

u Oh, I ’ll promise nothing. I may come, though I 
don’t think it ’s likely ; ” and taking his offered hand, 
which pressed hers tenderly, she hurried away and was 
soon lost to his view. 


Effie Hetherington . 


107 

The laird of Douglas stood like a man who has 
been waiting for the sun to smile behind a cloud. 
The shadow on his face was dark, but grim and 
sardonic. 

“ God bless her ! ” he thought, u how she can lie 
and lie ! and I love her the better for it ! It ’s 
something, after all, to have this secret between us. 
A little more torment, a twist more of the rack, and 
sheer desperation might drive her into my arms. But 

no, ’t will never come to that, unless — unless 

Oh, God, if she were only sick and broken, cursed 
and scorned and hated, that I might bend over her 
and lift her up and shield her in my bosom ! And yet, 
don’t I know she ’s a little devil, the angel ! Don’t I 
know that one smirk of a handsome face, the face 
even of a calf like yon, would be sweeter to her than 
the best blood of my heart ? She ’ll never love me ! 
She ’ll never love anything but her own passing 
fancies, and the sunshine, and the caprice of pleasing 
and tormenting.” 

Thus thinking, he passed on along the road leading 
to the inn where he had left his horse. Suddenly, 
with a cry of pain, he paused, threw up his arms, 
and cried aloud — 

“ Effie, Effie, Effie ! Let her save or damn me, 
she ’s the only woman in the world ! ” 

Effie Hetherington had not miscalculated the in- 
convenience likely to ensue from the discovery of 
her secret interview with Douglas, and yet it came 


io8 


TLffie Hetherington . 


that very evening in a form which she had scarcely 
anticipated. 

At dinner, although she was silent and constrained, 
Lady Bell was unusually kind and gracious, smiling 
and nodding at Effie as if there were some secret 
understanding between them. The great meal over, 
and Arthur left at table with the Earl, she hurried 
Effie off to the morning room, and, sitting by her 
side, began an animated conversation. 

u I hope, Effie, that you were n’t angry with us for 
spying upon you this morning ; it was quite an 
accident, I assure you. But I want to tell you now 
that I was n’t astonished, but very glad.” 

“ Glad ? Why ? ” asked Effie, opening her eyes wide. 
“To see you two together. Come, come, take me 
into your confidence for once, won’t you ? ” 

“ There ’s really nothing to confide in you about, 
Lady Bell. Our meeting, as I told you, was an 
accident, like your discovery of it.” 

“ Then he ’s not in love with you ? ” 

“ I ’m sure I don’t know. Suppose he is ? ” 

“Now I think you might do worse. He’s not 
a rich man, but he ’s of old family, and wants a good 
wife to reform him. . . . I ’ve often wondered, dear, 
what would become of you after Arthur and I are 

married, and I really think ” 

“Well, it’s no use thinking about it,” interrupted 
Effie, with growing irritation. “ I ’ve no intention of 
reforming anybody, least of all Mr. Douglas.” 


Ejjie Hetherington . 


109 

The two girls looked at each other steadfastly. 
There had never been any love lost between them, 
and now, although both wore a mask, there was no 
concealing the mutual dislike and suspicion. Lady 
Bell was first to break the silence. 

u Arthur thinks it would be a good thing, too.” 

“ I ’m sure I ’m very much obliged to Mr. Arthur,” 
returned Effie, with a little forced laugh, “ for taking 
so much interest in my fortunes. But really, Lady 
Bell, it ’s too absurd ; and as for Mr. Douglas, he ’s 
simply horrid ! ” 

u As a husband, you mean ? ” 

“ Of course, as a husband ; in other respects, I 
suppose, he is amusing enough.” 

“ So he seemed,” returned Bell, spitefully, “ when 
we caught you this morning.” 

Effie jumped up with a cry. 

cc I feel very tired,” she said ; “ I think I ’ll go to 
bed, if you ’ve no objection ? ” 

u Oh, none. But I ’m sorry you won’t trust 

„ _ » 

me. 

“ Of course I trust you ; but really, upon my word, 
things are not at all as you fancy. Good-night, Lady 
Bell.” 

tc Good-night.” 

Left alone in the drawing-room, Lady Bell looked 
pale and angry. 

“ I ’m certain she ’s deceiving me,” she said to 
herself, u as she deceives everybody. But I ’d give 


I I o 


Effie Hetherington . 


my little finger if Mr. Douglas would carry her off, 
and never let me see her face again.” 

And presently when the Earl was nodding over a 
book, and she and Arthur were whispering side by 
side, Lady Bell said to him — 

“ I ’ve spoken to Effie, and she denies that there is 
anything between her and Mr. Douglas.” 

“ After all,” returned Arthur, smiling, “ what does 
it matter ? ” 

u A great deal. Effie is a downright flirt, and it 
would do her good to be contracted to some honest 
man, who would take the nonsense out of her.” 

cc What about the man ? ” asked Arthur, with a 
laugh. u If she ’s as bad as you say, it might be 
rather hard on him” 

No more was said on the subject that evening, but 
Lady Bell was quite certain in her own mind that 
Arthur was far more interested in Effie Hetherington 
than he pretended to be ; indeed, a woman far less 
keen-sighted than herself would have suspected as 
much long ago, as she had done. She never felt quite 
sure of her fiance while Effie was in the way. The 
girl’s indisputable beauty, her gentle, clinging ways, 
her peculiar influence over men generally, irritated 
her beyond measure. 

Late that night, when the house was all asleep, 
Arthur Lamont and Effie stood whispering together 
in one of the loneliest corners of Castle Lindsay. 
The place where they stood formed a deep embrasure 


Effie Hetherington. 


1 1 1 


overlooking the gardens, and was flooded by moon- 
light from without. 

u If any one has a call to be jealous,” said the girl, 

“ it is I. If Lady Bell only knew ” 

“ Pray tell her ! ” was the reply. “ I don’t much 
care. Y ou know as well as I do that I ’ve got to marry 
her, and there ’s no way out of it ; but I did think you 
cared for me, Effie, and I ’m sorry that I ’m mistaken.” 

The girl, wrapped in a pink dressing-gown and 
with soft slippers on her bare feet, looked out wearily 
at the moonlight. 

u I ’ve no right to care for you,” she said, her lips 
trembling and her eyes full of tears. “ It ’s perfectly 
wicked and hopeless, and I feel ashamed of myself 
every time I look Lady Bell in the face. Always 
my luck, Arthur ! Whenever anybody likes me, he ’s 
sure to be somebody else’s property — a married man, 
or as good as married.” 

u Do you include Douglas ? ” 
cc He, at least, respects me. He ’d rather die than 
do anything to place me in a false position ! ” 

u Magnanimous savage ! Then why not make 
him happy or miserable, as the case may be ? ” 

She sobbed silently. 

“ You don’t love me, Arthur ! You never loved 
me ! ” 

“ Come, you know better than that,” he replied, 
putting his arms round her and resting her head upon 
his shoulder. 


I 12 


Effie Hetherington. 


“ Do you love me ? ” she whispered ; and as, in 
answer, he kissed her cheek, warm and wet with 
tears, she said, still sobbing, “ Oh, Arthur, I must go 
away ! I shall never be able to bear it when you 
marry Lady Bell ! ” 

A few minutes later Effie was in her bedroom, 
standing before a full-length mirror, and brushing out 
her golden hair by the light of two wax candles. 
Her tears were dried, and her face looked flushed and 
radiant. From time to time she bent forward and 
examined her features in the glass. 

u She hates me because I ’m prettier,” she thought, 
smiling at herself. u If Paris were sent down to 
decide the palm of beauty, it would n’t be Lady Bell 
that would have the golden apple ! And there ’s 
time yet ! There ’s many a slip between the cup 
and the lip, my Lady Bell ! Suppose it should be 
Effie Hetherington instead of you that is to be woo’d 
and married and a’ ! I think I ’d even marry Douglas, 
or the devil himself, to spite your ladyship ! ” 

And full of these Christian sentiments she stepped 
into bed, and had scarcely laid her head on the pillow 
before she was sound asleep. 


CHAPTER IX. 


HOW DOUGLAS SWORE AN OATH. 


C( Make me, make me a waxen man, 

My image let it be; 

Try it in fire to thy heart’s desire, 

Ma belle dame sans merci ! 

And if it melts and flows away, 

It’s frail and false like thee; 

But if it burns till the Judgment Day, 

You ’ll ken it’s true like me! ” 

Truth o’ that Ilk. 

H E was standing at the house-door, bareheaded, 
and looking wearily out to sea, when the sound 
of horses’ hoofs disturbed him, and, gazing round, he 
saw Effie Hetherington riding up on the white pony. 
Her face was hard set, and very pale, but she nodded 
to him with a forced smile, and held out her hand. 

u I ’ve kept my promise,” she said, “ and come to 
confession, but I can’t stay long.” 

He helped her to alight, and, while she waited for 
him at the open door, led her horse to the stables, 
unbridled it, and left it in a loose box ; then, still 
trembling with happiness at the unexpected vision, 

8 


Effie Hetherington. 


114 

he returned to her and led her into the wainscoted 
parlour, which was living room and study combined. 
The table was strewn with books, paper, fly casts, 
fishing tackle, and other odds and ends, and the dogs 
were in their accustomed place before the fire. 

u I ’m all alone to-day,” he said ; u Elspeth has 
gone marketing into Dumfries.” 

She threw herself into the great armchair, and 
slowly and thoughtfully began to draw off her gloves. 
The dogs, gathering round her, gave her a friendly 
welcome, but their master drove them off to the 
kitchen with scant ceremony ; then, standing erect on 
the hearthstone, he gazed at her long and curiously. 

“Well?” she said at last, looking up at him. 
u Are you wondering what brought me over ? ” 

u I never wonder at good fortune,” he replied, u or 
quarrel with unexpected gifts. I was only thinking 
that you look weary and a little sad.” 

u I am both. Of course you ’ve heard the news ? ” 
“ Of the marriage at Castle Lindsay ? Yes.” 

“ They went away yesterday afternoon and caught 
the night train for the south. They go right through 
London to Paris, on to Vienna, and then to some 
watering-place in Austria — I forget its name. 
They ’ll maybe be away six months, and maybe a 
year.” 

She spoke slowly and listlessly, but there was a 
bright light in her eyes and a pink spot on each 
cheek. 


Effie Hetherington. 


"5 


u It was a stupid wedding,” she continued, with a 
faint laugh. u Old Mr. Sinclair, the clergyman, lost 
the place twice when reading the service, and I 
thought he was going to get adrift among the Burials. 
Lady Bell did n’t look like a bride at all, but wore her 
travelling dress — an ugly green thing, which made 
her complexion seem horrid — and Mr. Arthur looked 
bored out of his life. There was plenty of company 
afterwards, and a dance in the evening ; but I was 
thinking all the time, c Suppose there should be a 
railway accident, what an end it would be to the 
bridal ! ’ ” 

He loved to hear the sound of her voice while 
feasting his eyes upon her face, but there was some- 
thing in her words which troubled and surprised him 
— a tone of bitter irritation, very unusual with her. 

“ Shall I get you something ? ” he said. w Some 
wine ? There ’s a bottle somewhere in the house.” 

“ Perhaps, before I go. Not now,” she replied ; 
and reaching out her hand, she turned over the leaves 
of a book. 

“ You’d better not look at that,” said Douglas, 
quickly and nervously. “ It ’s not pretty — at least 
for a woman’s eyes.” 

u Indeed ? Well, so much the better if it ’s ugly.” 

u Don’t, please ! ” he cried, placing his hand on 
hers. 

She looked up at him with a gleam of the old 
merry light in her eyes. 


1 16 


Effie Hetherington . 


“ Do you mean it is n’t proper ? ” 
u Maybe.” 

“ Never mind, I ’m not such a very proper person,” 
she said, laughing and pushing his hand aside ; then 
she added, glancing at the printed page, “ Oh, you 
need n’t be alarmed — it’s Italian, and my accomplish- 
ments don’t go beyond French and a little German.” 
“ All the better.” 

“ I ’m not sure,” she returned thoughtfully, pouting 
her lips. u I should like to know everything that 
men know, and read everything that men read. I 
know it ’s horrid of me, but it ’s the truth. I suppose 
you think we women are made of sugar and spice and 
all that ’s nice ? You never made a greater mistake in 
your life. We ’ve a natural fascination for everything 
that ’s wicked. There ’s Lady Bell, for example, the 
bonnie bride of yesterday. It won’t take Mr. Arthur 
long to find what she is ! ” 

u You ’re hard upon her,” said Douglas, “and have 
ever been.” 

u Because I hate her ! ” cried the girl, with flashing 
eyes. “ And if you knew everything, you ’d say with 
good reason. Be quite sure, however, that she returns 
the compliment. There never was any love lost 
between us.” 

So saying, she rose and walked to the window, 
looking out upon the shores of the distant Firth. He 
followed her, and stood by her side. 

w And you bide here all alone ? ” she said softly. 


Effie Hetherington . 


117 

u I should go mad with only that grey sea and those 
weariful distant hills to look upon. Why don’t you 
leave the place and lead your life like a man ? / 

would, if God had n’t made me a girl, and ringed me 
round with a kirtle.” 

“ I ’ve seen enough of the world not to care for it.” 
“ Have you been abroad ? On the Continent, I 
mean, among the great cities ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ To Paris ? Germany ? Italy ? ” 

Douglas nodded. 

“ And yet you can remain here ? ” 
u Maybe that ’s the reason. I sowed my wild oats 

till I grew tired, and now here I bide.” 

Effie looked curiously at him and laughed. 
cc My respect for you is increasing, Mr. Douglas. 
I envy you also. What every woman, who is a wo- 
man, yearns for most, is to sow her wild oats before 
settling down.” 

“ That ’s only a lassie’s saying,” returned Douglas, 
smiling. “ Wild oats are ugly things.” 

“ Ugly or pretty, I ’ve a plentiful stock on hand. I 
could spend years in getting rid of them. I ’d go 
wherever lights are lit, music playing, wine sparkling, 
folk whirling round and round until they drop. I hate 
stillness ! I want life. Tell me,” she added, fixing 
her bright eyes on his, “ were you ever in love ? ” 

“ In love,” he echoed, his heart leaping. “ I ” 

“ Oh, I don’t mean the love folk feel up here in the 


Effie Hetherington. 


1 1 8 


cold north. I mean were you ever in love with some 
one you knew to be wicked — a bad woman, one of 
those women every pure girl longs to be just for a day 
— the women who know everything, who have sucked 
the heart out of life, and have only one pleasure left, 
to make the men they meet as horrid as themselves. 
Come, tell me ! I should like to know.” 

“Well, yes, I have known such women.” 

u And loved them ? ” 

u I thought so,” he replied; “ but I know now that 
there was no love there. Effie, I ’ve only loved once , 
and though I should live for an eternity, I should 
never love again. I often think here in the old 
dwelling, that women can never love like that ! ” 

“ I fancy you ’re right,” she said, with a sigh. 
u I ’m sure / could n’t.” 

“Not — not any one ? ” 

“Not any one. Nature never meant me for a 
martyr, Mr. Douglas.” 

“You are better and nobler than you think your- 
self.” 

“ I ’m not at all noble — I’m not even good. Pray 
don’t credit me with any imaginary virtues. All I 
wish is to live to have my full measure of happiness — 
the sort of happiness I want, and which many would 
despise.” 

Her eyes sparkled, her cheek flushed, and she had 
never looked so beautiful. With a mad impulse, he 
caught her in his arms and drew her to his heart ; but 


Effie Hetherington . 


119 


in a moment, panting and angry, she had released her- 
self disdainfully, and turned a white face upon him. 

“ I was wrong to come here,” she said. u I see 
you wish to insult me.” 
u Insult you ! my God ! ” 

“ I have been candid with you from the first. I 
can never like you as you wish. How often must I 
remind you that when you treat me like that, you 
sicken me, and make me lose my self-respect ! ” 

“ I would rather die than do that ! ” 
u You do it every moment, with every look, every 
word, and, most of all, with your touch. You ought 
to understand that by this time.” 

u What is it you fear ? Your conscience ” 

cc It has nothing to do with conscience. I have no 
conscience. If I loved you, if I cared for you as 
women care for men, I should have no scruples of any 
kind. I suppose I am different from other women. 
Other women would be flattered and carried away by 
such feelings as yours, by such (if you like the word) 
devotion. It does not touch me in the least. It only 
makes me sick.” 

She crossed the room, and again seated herself by 
the fire. 

There was a long silence, horrible to the man, who 
was struck dumb by the pitiless cruelty of Effie’s 
words. Blind and bewildered as he was, he knew in 
his soul that such words could never have come from 
the lips of a woman worth loving ; that every mood 


I 20 


Ejjie Hetherington . 


of this creature belied the other, and that none were 
noble ; that there was in her nature a refinement of 
repulsion which could have its source only in a nausea 
towards all that was really spiritual and beautiful in 
human sentiment. She had spoken of creatures who 
had sucked the heart out of life, and who hated men. 
This pure girl, who at one moment seemed so 
scrupulous as to the touch, and at another had out 
of capricious pity stooped and kissed the man she 
loathed, who confessed to her yearning for things 
forbidden, whose intelligence was that of an animal 
and whose morality was that of a petted child, had 
attained to the aestheticism of vice without any 
experience of what vice was. He knew all this, and 
yet it did not lessen the weight of his passion by one 
solitary hair. He could have lain down like a dog 
and kissed the feet that spurned him. 

The silence continued. There was no irksomeness 
in it to Efiie, for her thoughts were already far away 
with Arthur Lamont and his bride. But at last 
Douglas could bear it no longer, and he spoke — 

“ Why did you come here ? Why did you not 
leave me in peace ? ” he cried. 

u If you wish me to go ” 

“ I do not wish it. I wish nothing. You have 
killed all the wish and will within me.” 

“ Forgive me,” she said, the tears welling up into 
her eyes. “ I am always causing you pain ; but, as 
I told you long ago, you ’re so impossible .” 


Effie Hetherington. 


I 2 1 


Even his loyal nature rose at this old calumny. 

“ I ’m what you ’ve made me, Effie Hetherington ! ” 
u Do you mean that I ’ve encouraged you ? If so, 
you ’re very rude.” 

w You have encouraged me. Not in words. No; 
women can lie with them — puzzle their victims and 
cheat themselves. But with looks, confessions, con- 
fidences, coquetries, caprices — what have you not 
done ? I ’ve only one last prayer to make for you, 
my woman. May God never play with your heart 
as you ’ve played with mine ! ” 

These words went home, and the girl shrunk as 
from a blow, grew deadly pale and placed her hand 
upon her heart. He moved quickly towards her, for 
she seemed about to faint. 

But she recovered herself in another moment, and 
rose trembling. 

u I ’ll go now,” she said. 

“ At least let me get you some refreshment. It ’s 

a long ride here and home again, and, maybe ” 

u I took no breakfast,” she replied ; u only a cup 
of tea. If you don’t mind, I should like to eat some- 
thing — a biscuit, a piece of bread, anything will do.” 

He looked at her for a moment, and then left the 
room. Presently he returned, bringing with him on 
a tray some bread and butter and cold meat. 

“ The best I have,” he said apologetically, as he 
set it before her. 

“ Why, it ’s splendid ! ” she cried, smiling. u What 


I 22 


Effie Hetherington. 


a trouble you must think me ; but, really, I ’m not a 
fairy, and can’t live on air.” 

She ate heartily, with vigorous appetite, and, under 
his persuasion, drank also a glass of wine mixed with 
water. The wine was the last of some old Madeira 
which had belonged to his father. 

w Shall I bring your horse round ? ” asked Douglas, 
coldly. 

u There ’s no hurry, unless you want to drive me 
away. Oh, Mr. Douglas,” she added pleadingly, 
w why is it that we always quarrel ? I want a true 
friend so much, and you won't let me find one in 
you.” 

u I shall always be your friend, if nothing more.” 

“ You don’t hate me for what I ’ve said ? ” 
u Hate never bides in the same bield with love,” he 
replied, and as he spoke his face was one grey mask 
of hopeless woe. w You might rely on me, for life 
or death.” 

u You care for me so much ? ” 

“ Put that aside. Don’t speak of it — it kills me. 
Try my friendship, as you call it — try it in hell-fire, 
if it pleases you — I’m ready.” 

She looked at him wistfully, and her bosom rose 
and fell in smothered sobs. 
u I may, some day.” 

u If ever that day comes,” said Douglas, quietly, 
u remember what I say. If you are ever sick or in 
trouble, if the doors of all the world are closed against 


Effie Hetherington. 


123 


you, if you have neither friend nor shelter, and even 
if you deserve neither (which God forbid), come to 
me — I shall be prepared. Whatever changes, I shall 
be the same — that is, if I live. Trust me, as you 
would trust your God — you may safely do so. I 
think, Effie, that if I were lying in my grave, and 
you cried to me for help from above it, I should grow 
quick and come to you. For I swear to you that 
you are my light and my life, my world and my 
living soul ! 99 

Steadfastly, firmly, almost without a tremor of the 
voice, he uttered this protestation, every syllable of 
which sank into the memory of the girl who listened, 
and as he spoke, his nature towered above hers as 
something god-like and terrible. 

With a hysterical cry she reached out her hands 
to him ; he took them in his, and pressed them softly, 
but made no other sign of passion or emotion. Yet 
if at that instant he had taken her into his arms in all 
the ecstasy of his devotion, she would have yielded 
without a struggle ; not, perhaps, out of love — from 
very awe of his savage strength. The instant passed, 
and with it, so far as these two lives were concerned, 
passed all eternity. 

They walked together to the front door, and stood 
side by side in the grey sunlight. 

Her face was flushed with the blood of youth and 
strength, his grim and dark as with the shadow of 
years. She watched him thoughtfully when he left 


TLffie Hetherington . 


i 24 

her and entered the stable, then, as he disappeared 
from sight, sighed and shrugged her shoulders. All 
her sadness had passed away like a summer cloud. 

Presently Douglas reappeared, leading her pony and 
his own horse, also saddled and bridled. She smiled 
to herself, but affected a pretty surprise. 

“ What ! are you coming ? ” 

u I ’ll see you clear of the Moss, at any rate,” he 
answered, as he helped her into the saddle ; then he 
vaulted on to his own steed, and they set forth. 

The bridle path was narrow, and Douglas had to 
lead the way. * A strange, wild figure he seemed, 
mounted on an animal gaunt, yet powerful. His 
slouch hat drawn over his eyebrows, his garments 
rough and long-worn, he stooped in the saddle like 
an old man. Involuntarily, Effie sighed and shrugged 
her shoulders again. Here was no form to win a 
young girl’s fancy, no beauty to set her heart astir ; 
only a rugged, weather-beaten creature, rough and 
tough as a withered oak. 

Further on, where the path widened, she cantered 
up to his side. Around them stretched the heather- 
stained reaches of the Moss, and to the left the Firth 
with its fringe of yellow sands. Seagulls passed slowly 
over them, as if passing over the sea ; and from the 
dark, deep runlets which broke up the Moss uprose, 
whistling, the dunlin and the sandpiper. They could 
hear the breaking waves, though the line of foam was 
a good two miles away. 


Effie Hetherington. 


12 5 


cc How I love the sea ! ” she said. w Wherever that 
sleepless sound is heard, one is never quite lonely.” 

He glanced at her and saw that her face was flushed 
wkh happiness, her nostrils expanded, her mouth 
drinking in the salt air. 

Presently she proposed a gallop, and away they 
went along the soft road, she leading, he following, 
until she reined up to draw breath. All her light 
animal spirits seemed to have returned, all the mis- 
understanding with her companion to be forgotten. 

So they left the Moss and came out on the high- 
way. Not until they came in sight of Castle Lindsay 
did Douglas rein in his horse and say farewell. 

“ What a lovely ride we ’ve had ! ” said Effie. 
u Will you scold me if I come over again, and soon ? ” 

His face did not brighten, his eyes gave no gleam 
of joyful anticipation. 

“ You will please yourself,” he answered. “ All I 
ask you to promise is to come to me whenever you 
are in trouble.” 

u I hope you don’t imagine that trouble is in store 
forme?” 

“ I hope not ; but if ever the day comes, remember. 
There will be always one door open, one man that 
has not changed.” 

And so, with a wave of the hand, he rode away. 

She sat in the saddle watching him until he dis- 
appeared. Then, leaning forward over the neck of 
her pony, she reflected — 


126 


Effie Hetherington. 


“ What does he mean ? When he spoke to me 
of trouble that might come, his eyes seemed to read 
my soul. An impossible man, yet the only man in 
all the world who really loves me. Just like my 
fortune ! ” 

Slowly and thoughtfully she made her way back to 
the Castle. The sun had gone in, the woods looked 
black and dismal, and there was a “ sough ” of the 
south-west wind that spoke of coming rain. In the 
dusk of that day, Effie Hetherington, like the laird 
of Douglas, seemed to have grown quite grey and 
old. 


BOOK II. 


THE SORROW OF EFFIE HETHERINGTON. 

“ O waly, waly, but Love is bonnie, 

A little while when it is new, 

But when it’s auld it waxeth cauld 

And fades awa 1 like the morning dew. 

I set my back against an aik, 

I thought it was a trusty tree. 

But first it bent, and syne it brake, 

For my true love 's forsaken me!” 





CHAPTER I. 


HOW HALLOWEEN CAME ROUND ONCE MORE. 

“ O wha will shoe my bonnie foot, 

And wha will glove my hand ? 

And wha will lace my middle jimp 
With the lang, lang linen band ? 

“ O wha will kaim my yellow hair 
Wi’ a new-made siller kaim ? 


And wha will faither my young son, 
Till Lord Gregory come hame ? ” 


Annie o’ Lochryan. 



AIRD, laird ! ” cried old Elspeth. 


J Several knocks upon the door had preceded 
her entrance, but the laird of Douglas, with his eyes 
upon the fading lire and a long extinguished pipe 
between his teeth, took no heed of either. At the 
touch of the old woman’s hand upon his shoulder, he 
turned with a start, which showed how sudden had 
been his awakening from his deep abstraction. 
u Eh ? what ? Who is it ? ” 

u Wha should it be,” asked the old woman in 
return, “ but just myseP ? I ’m gawn to the toon, for 
we ’re just about clean out of bread, and the lazy loon, 


9 


1 3 ° 


Rffie Hetherington. 


Jack Calmont, that should hae been here three hours 
syne, is no’ come yet. Why, laird, what ails ye, that 
ye sit here with the fire well-nigh oot and the night 
sae bitter cauld ? Ye’ll catch your death, gin ye 
gang on this gait, taking no mair heed o’ yoursel’ than 
a froward bairn.” 

She knelt before the hearth, and with shaking hands 
raked together the last glowing morsels of peat beneath 
the heap of grey ashes, carefully feeding the dying 
glow with fresh fuel. 

Douglas, after his first startled look at her, had 
fallen back into his brooding quiet. As she rose, he 
took his tobacco-pouch from his pocket with an absent 
air, and filled his pipe, glancing meanwhile at the fire, 
with a set and troubled look. 

Old Elspeth watched him askance. The pipe 
filled, he restored the pouch to his pocket, and made 
a desultory, wandering search about his person for a 
match, which ended in his falling back into his 
abstraction with the unlit pipe between his lips. 

“ Eh ! ” the old woman muttered quietly, with an 
accent of despairing calm, and tearing a fragment 
from a newspaper upon the table, lit it at the swing- 
ing lamp, and offered it to her master. He took it 
mechanically, set his pipe aglow, and leaned back in 
his chair, puffing intently. 

“ There ’s naething ye ’ll be wanting frae the toon, 
laird ? ” she asked, in a voice as purely commonplace 
and conventional as she could make it. 


Effie Hetherington. 


1 3 1 

He returned no answer. 

u Deil ’s in the man ! ” she broke out, with a sudden 
exclamation, which awoke him for a moment from his 
trance of thought. u A body might just as well talk 
to a stane in the kirkyard. You ’ve ne’er a word to 
thraw to a dog, let be to a puir auld Christian that has 
nursed and tended ye this ane and thirty year ! ” 

4t I beg your pardon, Elspeth ; I was thinking.” 

lc Thinking ! Aye, and muckle guid your thinking 
does ! ” muttered the old woman. Douglas moved 
impatiently in his chair. u I ’d bet a saxpence, gin I 
had ane to bet, that ye dinna even ken what day o’ all 
days o’ the year it is, wi’ a’ your thinking.” 

“ Halloween, Elspeth. I know the day well enough. 
What of it ? ” 

“ What o’ it ? Just naething o’ it. It passes like 
ilka other day i’ this hoose, wi’ naebody but a dour 
master like yoursel’ and a daft auld carline like me. 
And to think that it ’s the hoose o’ Douglas should be 
the only hoose where the good auld time should be 
forgot. It was better in your faither’s time, Dare the 
Deil, as they ca’d him. There was bite and sup for 
them that chose to come on siccan occasion in his 
day, and a bonny leddy to mak’ them welcome, and a 
bright fire and a clean hearth. And noo ! hech ! but 
there ’s a difference ! ” 

Elspeth’s intention was kindlier than her words, 
she wanted only to rouse her master from the troubled 
trance in which he passed so many of his waking 


1 3 2 


Effie Hetherington. 


hours. He sat with his bent head so that she could 
not see the flush on his cheek and the gloomy glitter 
in his eye. 

u Times are sair changed,” she went on, w when a 
man like you, the best blood and the comeliest for 
miles around ” (this was no flattery, but an article of 
Elspeth’s creed), u sits alane by his ain ingle on Hal- 
loween. What say I ? Halloween ? It ’s aye the 
same times in this sad hoose ! ” 

Douglas’ foot beat an impatient tattoo on the hearth- 
stone and he puffed hard and fast at his pipe ; Elspeth 
noted these signs of perturbation, and fearing an ex- 
plosion of his anger hastened to change the subject. 

u It ’s wearin’ late,” she said, with a glance through 
the window at the gloomy prospect, which received 
more illumination from the snow upon it than from 
the last faint gleam of vanishing daylight visible 
through a rift in the heavy sky, u and I must be awa’ 
to the clachan. Is there anything ye ’re needing, 
laird ? ” 

M Nothing,” murmured Douglas, M nothing.” 

“ I ’ll be no longer awa’ than I can help,” said 
Elspeth, u for indeed, it ’s gaun to be nae canny night 
to be abroad in. It ’s deep with snaw, and to-day I 
found the water in the pot frozen hard within a yard 
o’ the kitchen door.” 

The laird made no comment on this meteorological 
marvel, but sat with his eyes again bent on the fire, 
as Elspeth had found him. She lingered still for a 


Effie Hetherington. 


J 33 


moment, in hope of again hearing his voice, but he 
made no sign, and she left the room, closing the door 
gently behind her. 

Time had not stood still with the Laird of Douglas, 
and, indeed, the last year had left deeper traces upon 
him than ten times such a space leaves upon happier 
men. The natural and habitual gloom that dwelt 
upon his face was deepened, the strong lines in his 
sad cheek scored more heaVily ; there was a look of 
despair grown half patient in his cavernous eyes ; the 
long elf locks of his hair were touched with grey 
behind the ears. 

Had he been a little richer, or had his lines of life 
been cast elsewhere than in that gloomy neighbour- 
hood, with more possibilities of action — had he been 
of a more expansive or less profound nature — in a 
word, had he been otherwise than what he was, 
Douglas might have found some cure for the bitter 
and hopeless passion which had settled upon him. 
He rebelled against it at times, but it closed in upon 
him again, as a fog lifted for a moment from the face 
of a mountain by a flaw of wind, settles again when 
the disturbing cause is past. 

Out on the barren moorland the wind was rising 
in fitful gusts, each louder and louder than the last, 
and between them the snow was falling in flakes as 
large as a child’s hand. At last, a loud blast, which 
seemed to shake the house, and screamed with an 
eerie voice down the wide chimney, half-filling the 


1 34 


Effie Hetherington. 


room with yellow peat smoke, roused the solitary 
man from his fruitless meditation. He walked to 
the door of the cottage and opened it. The whole 
country was scarred with lines of snow, heavy clouds 
were drifting overhead, revealing, only to quench as 
soon as seen, a solitary star here and there in the 
black expanse. 

The stormy spirit of the night suited his mood 
well, as, with brows bending and chin forward, he 
faced the gusty wind. Thought after thought drifted 
through his brain, memory after memory, like frag- 
ments of rent cloud. 

He had never troubled himself much with the pro- 
blems of existence ; born, as it were, without faith, he 
had cherished no illusions save one — that the heaven- 
liest thing in the world was some passionate woman’s 
love. For this he had craved and agonized, long 
before Effie Hetherington beset his path ; and no 
stormy excesses of his youth, no experience of light 
women, had ever changed his first yearning. For the 
good and pretty, the conventional, women he had 
encountered, he felt no sympathy ; many a fair 
face had passed him by unheeded. For, though the 
man was rough in outward bearing, he was keenly 
critical and capricious where the sex was concerned. 
A look, a word, the mode of wearing a dress, a walk, 
an attitude, had the power to disenchant him in- 
stantly. Only once in his life had he been on the 
point of marrying, and that was to a woman — a young 


Effie Hetherington. 


1 35 


Belgian girl — whose beauty was no less extraordinary 
than her depravity. For a space he was mastered by 
her splendid animalism, so wildly in harmony with his 
own ; but he had hesitated, and during his hesitation 
she had found a richer lover and disappeared. It was 
well for him that she did so ; for their union (and he 
had contemplated actual marriage with her) would 
have had some terrible ending. 

But the night when he, in the prime of manhood, 
met Effie Hetherington, he was captive in a moment. 
She fascinated him to the point of madness. Her 
strange beauty, her cleverness, her infinite caprice, 
were a revelation to the lonely man, and she, a natural 
coquette, with smiles and tears at command, played 
upon his nature as on a lover’s lute. The look of her 
eyes, the turn of her head, the movements of her body, 
the touch of her hand, the rustle of her dress, kept 
alive the passion of his nature ; and when he found 
that no response came to his passion, that the prettiest 
thing in life was also the most cruel, his passion, in- 
stead of lessening, increased tenfold. Then came the 
series of interviews, of secret meetings, which had 
been at once his rapture and his torture. Pleased, hu- 
miliated, encouraged, soothed or insulted, he staggered 
on with closed eyes, following the dream he knew 
not whither. At last, his self-abnegation had been 
complete. He had become the captive of a frail 
being whom he could have destroyed with a touch. 

And once again, standing in the night at his door, 


136 


Effie Hetherington. 


he murmured aloud the wild words of the old ballad 
which seemed to express the saddest yearning of his 
soul — 

“ And 4 Hey, Annie ! * and 4 How, Annie! ’ 

And 4 Annie, come hither to me! ’ 

And aye the more that he cried 4 Annie,’ 

The louder rair’d the sea !” 

And suddenly, as he spoke the words, a Miracle ! 
Out of the night, out of the black mist of darkness 
and flying snow, came the figure of Effie Hethering- 
ton, fluttering to his door like a wounded bird, crying 
aloud his name, reaching out her arms and moaning 
piteously, till, spent and swooning, she sank at his 
feet ! 

With a cry, almost a shriek, he caught her up in 
his arms. 

He could not see her face, but there was no need 
to tell him it was she — he would have known her 
among a thousand, amid utter darkness. 

u Effie, Effie ! ” he cried, and clasped her to his 
breast ; then, like one bearing the wealth of all the 
world, he carried her to the sitting-room, where the 
lamp was burning. The wind rushed in behind them. 

He set her by the fire, in the great armchair, in 
which he had sat so many a night brooding over the 
thought of her and of his hopeless love. Supporting 
her neck with one arm, he gazed into her face : it 
was blue-white with cold, and her hair was wet with 
snow, and the flakes lay upon the cloak she wore 


Fiffie Hetherington . 


1 37 


wrapped around her, and from head to foot she looked 
bruised and broken like a trodden flower. Partially- 
recovering consciousness, she clung to him, sobbing, 
and uttering inarticulate moans. 

u My God ! ” he murmured, w what is it ? Why 
has she come here ? ” 

As he spoke, her eyes opened and looked upon 
him. 

“ I have come ! ” she cried. u Keep, keep your 
promise ! ” — and once more she swooned away. 

Utterly bewildered, he knelt down beside her, undid 
the fastening of her cloak, loosened her dress at the 
neck, calling her name and murmuring words of com- 
fort ; then springing to his feet, he took the spirit 
bottle from its shelf, poured a little of the contents 
into a glass, and trickled a few drops between her 
clenched teeth ; and afterwards, seizing her cold 
hands in his, chafed them tenderly. 

His promise ? What did it mean ? He was too 
dazed to understand, and — shall I add ? — too happy. 
For to have her there with him in her utter helpless- 
ness, to minister to her needs, to touch her, to yearn 
over her — all this was happiness, too strange and 
wild for thought to measure. 

At last the faint colour flickered into her cheeks, 
and she uttered a long, deep moan ; then her fingers 
were lifted convulsively to her neck, and she seemed 
fighting for breath. She undid her dress more, and 
seemed relieved. He waited anxiously. At last she 


i 3 8 


Effie Hetherington. 


looked at him again, in such despair, such agony, that 
he was absolutely terrified. 

“ Effie, my lass, what is it ? ” he cried. 

She did not answer, but covered her face with her 
hands and wept. He placed his hand on her shoulder, 
and waited for her to speak ; at last the words came. 

“ Don’t hate me ! Don’t drive me away ! Don’t 
send me back yonder ! Don’t, don’t ! ” 

She lay back crying in the chair, her face still 
covered, but he saw the red blood suffusing her neck 
and rushing up to flood her cheeks. 

“ What has happened ? ” he cried, still wondering. 
w Don’t be afraid. Your home is here. But speak — 
tell me ! ” 

He paused, for as his eye met her figure a light 
flashed upon him. He recoiled with extended quiver- 
ing hands, expressive of mingled tenderness and re- 
pugnance. For a minute he paused in that attitude 
like a man frozen, then with a cry he lifted up his 
clenched hands, and said — 

u My God ! my God ! ” 

She heard his despairing moan, and shrank away in 
terror, uncovering her face, and gazing at him with a 
troubled and wondering look. Pale as death, weeping 
no longer, she paused, like one waiting to hear her 
death-sentence. His face was hard as a mask of stone, 
for at last he knew the truth. The time had come 
for him to keep his oath. She had come to him be- 
cause he was the one man in the world whom she 


Effie Hetherington. 


r 39 


had most wronged, because she was friendless, de- 
serted, and, in the eyes of all Pharisees, a miserable 
sinner. 

So hard and deadly did his face seem, and so pain- 
fully was the stony look prolonged, that at last the 
girl herself could bear it no more. Rising to her 
feet and tottering feebly, she said — 

“Let me go ! I should never have come ! For- 
give me — I will go away ! ” 

Without a word, he placed a strong hand on either 
arm, and, though she struggled feebly, replaced her in 
the chair. Quite helpless to resist him, and growing 
weaker every moment, she sank back with half-closed 
eyes, the lids quivering, the tears just trembling 
through. 

His tongue and throat were dry as dust ; he tried 
for some minutes to speak, but vainly ; only, with 
that life-long hunger of the eyes, he fed on the 
lineaments of her worn, sad face. 

“ Effie, 1 ” he said at last, in a low voice — “ Effie, 
listen to me ! ” 

She shrank away, but listened. 

“ The day I first loved you, my woman, I knew 
’t would maybe end in a tryst of death or shame. I 
loved you, Effie, more than myself or God. The 
time ’s come to prove me, and I ’m ready, if it were 
to face both Death and Hell.” 

Shivering and sobbing, she made a quick gesture 
with the hand, as if to implore him to be silent. But 
he proceeded — 


140 


Effie Hetherington. 


“ But, not even now, my woman, will I lie to you. 
What you ’ve brought me to-night is bitterer to bear 
than Death. But I ’ll take the gift, since ’t is the only 
one God cares to give. I ’ll take you, Effie, as I ’d 
take a poison flower to wear on my breast ; I told you 
langsyne if ever you were in trouble to come to me, 
and, thank God ! you ’ve come, and you ’re as sure of 
love and shelter here as if you ’d given me your heart. 
If I grieve, it ’s not for myself, my woman — it ’s for 
you ! for you, Effie — the only thing I care for in the 
world.” 

As he took her hand, gently and pityingly, she 
gazed again into his face, and saw that his eyes were 
dim, and two slow tears were rolling down his cheeks. 
Their eyes met, and he trembled like a man with the 
ague ; then, like one death-struck, he sank upon his 
knees before her and buried his face in his hands. 


CHAPTER II. 


HOW DOUGLAS LISTENED IN THE NIGHT. 

“ The laverock and the mavis, 

The bawkin and the jay, 

The mire-snipe and the heather-bleat, 
How many birds are they ? 

I carena now how many they be, 

They ’ve mates to see them through, 
But in my nest sits fatherless 

The wee bird called ‘ cuckoo ’ ! ” 


Border Song. 


STEP sounded in the passage outside the room, 



a! and Douglas, starting to his feet, with a hurried 
sign to Effie, which the latter obeyed by checking her 
sobs and cries, went hastily out. The intruder proved 
to be Elspeth. 

u Are ye daft, laird,” she began, “ to leave the door 
wide open on sic’ a night as this for any wandering 
thief to walk in ? Look at the snaw that ’s driving ben 
— it ’s thicker than oot on the hill-side.” 

4t Never mind the snow ! ” said the laird : “ bide 
here while I shut the door.” 

There was something in his tone which checked 
the old woman’s reproof, and she stood silent, her 


142 


Effie Hetherington. 


mouth ajar, till he had closed the door and returned 
to her. 

“ Elspeth,” he said, u you have served me long and 
well. I think you love me, and would help me if you 
could ? ” 

u The Lord kens it,” she answered, after a be- 
wildered stare at him. “ What is it, laird ? Ye’re 
as white as a ghaist ! Eh, what has happened since I 
left the hoose ? ” 

tc Listen, then, woman ! Miss Hetherington is 
here.” 

Elspeth started, and wonderingly repeated the name. 

u She is ill and in trouble,” added Douglas. 

cc Puir lassie ! ” said Elspeth. “ What ’s wrang wi’ 
her ; and what, i’ the name of a’ that ’s uncannie, 
brought her here ? ” 

u That,” said Douglas, w you will find for yourself. 
She ’s in the sitting-room ; take her to my room, put 
her to bed, and treat her kindly. Oh, Elspeth ! be 
gentle with her ! ” 

“ Why should I no’ be gentle wi’ the puir lass ? ” 
asked Elspeth, not unnaturally surprised at the re- 
commendation and at the pleading tone in which it 
was made. u Take me to her, laird.” 

Douglas passed into the room before the old servant, 
and stood aside as she advanced towards Effie. The 
poor girl was crying softly and rocking herself to and 
fro, as if in great pain. 

“ Eh, dear — eh, dear ! ” said Elspeth, pityingly ; 


Effie Hetherington. 


*43 


“ dinna greet sae, my bonnie leddie. Eh ! ” she con- 
tinued, brushing away the heavy mass of curling hair, 
“ you ’re droukit like a sheep of a wet morn. Come 
awa’ — come ben to the laird’s room. You ’ll be best 
in bed, I ’m thinking, while your claise are dried. Ye 
can rest here till the morn, and the laird will find 
somebody to take news o’ your safety to the Castle.” 

“ Light the fire in the bedroom,” said Douglas, 
“and I will help Miss Hetherington there.” 

The old woman shuffled away to execute his order. 
It was with a strange, half-insane joy that Douglas 
took the girl again in his arms. It was shame and 
misfortune that had brought her to the door ; but, be 
that as it might, she was there, dependent on him — 
delivered up to him — at the mercy of that craving 
love which had been stifled in his heart so long. 

He led her to the bedroom when Elspeth had lit 
the fire, and placed her in a chair beside the bed. She 
clung to him with all her strength as he endeavoured 
to leave her, but he gently disengaged himself. A 
wild, mad joy was in his face, and he knew that it 
deepened with every one of her mute, helpless, im- 
ploring caresses, and he was fearful that she should 
see it. 

He passed out into the night. The snow had 
ceased to fall, and, save for a heavy bank of cloud 
low down on the horizon, the wind had swept the sky 
clear. The cold air blew about his throbbing temples 
and refreshed him as he walked backwards and for- 


1 44 


Effie Hetherington . 


wards before the house, giving vent in strange mutter- 
ings and wild gestures to the passions which swayed 
and clamoured in his breast. To that wild joy — the 
knowledge of Effie’s presence in his house — succeeded 
a raging wonder as to the identity of her betrayer. 
What infernal villain had conceived the idea of de- 
stroying that divine innocence and purity ? Douglas 
swore, with deep and awful oaths, that if ever he 
learned the wretch’s name he would follow him round 
the breadth of the world, and never rest until he had 
killed him. Pity and rage and mad rejoicing followed 
each other through his disordered mind. He recalled 
every circumstance of his former meeting with Effie 
— her every tone and look ; he remembered how, 
hidden in the trees of that night year, furtively 
looking toward the lighted windows of the Castle — 
the casket which held his jewel — his heart had thrilled, 
his blood quickened and burned, at the light sound of 
her footstep upon the turf. He saw the slight white 
figure pause before him ; heard her panting breath ; 
saw the jewels glitter on the little hand that threw 
the thread ; heard her voice, faint with terror, utter 
the charm ; and saw her face blanch at his apparition 
between the bushes. He remembered their after 
meetings — her infinite coquetries — her affection of 
camaraderie and platonic friendship — her capricious 
tyranny and his own despair. And she was there — 
there in his house — at his mercy ; delivered up to the 
implacable love which had pursued her so long ! 


Effie Hetherington. 


1 45 

As he re-entered the house, he found Elspeth wait- 
ing for him in the kitchen. Their eyes met, and he 
saw that the old woman, too, shared Effie’s secret. 

“ Well,” he asked, u is she in bed ? ” 

“ Aye,” bitterly replied the old woman. “ In the 
bed where your mother slept, and where you were 
born. Do ye no’ think shame to have bidden me 
tak’ her there ? ” 

u No,” returned the laird ; tc and hold your peace.” 

u I ’ll no’ hold my peace,” said Elspeth, frankly ; 
“ and what ’s mair, I ’ll no’ be the howdie to your 
light-o’-love ! ” 

cc Mine, woman ! ” cried Douglas, staggering as if 
the word had stung him. 

u And if no’ yours, which God forbid ! some other 
man’s. Is there nae hospital in the toon, nae brake 
or whinbush by the roadside, that she should come 
here, where a’ the warld must ken her shame ? ” 

The man’s face grew black and terrible. 

w Damn you, be silent ! ” he said. “ If you mean 
to talk like that, leave the house.” 

“ I ’ll leave it, laird, for it ’s no place noo for a 
decent woman,” and she shuffled towards the door. 

w No, you shall stay ! ” said Douglas, gripping her 
arm. w You leap to conclusions like a fool. Sup- 
pose — suppose she is a wife.” 

“ She wears nae ring.” 

“ What of that ? ” 

u And nae lawful wife within an hour o’ bearing a 


io 


146 


Effie Hetherington. 


bairn would hae come by night to a stranger’s 
hoose.” 

“ She has come, and she shall stay,” was the reply. 
u If you ’ve no pity for her, think of the bairn un- 
born. Do my bidding. Help me to see her through 
this night. If you refuse, I ’ll do the work alone.” 

The old woman looked at him in surprise. She 
knew his temper and determination, and she saw in 
his face, moreover, a look of unusual resolve. 

“ Wae ’s me for this day ! ” she said. “ I ’ll do your 
bidding, laird, as I hae done it my life long ; and God 
forgive me for loving you better than my ain gude 
name, and the gude name o’ the hoose that has 
sheltered me.” 

u God bless you, Elspeth,” cried Douglas, in a 
choking voice. 

Elspeth left the room ; and the laird, after a long 
and agitated walk about the limits of the sitting-room, 
reseated himself in his chair, and sat in the dead 
silence of the house straining his ears to catch the 
slightest sound from the chamber in which his grim 
old servant kept dutiful but unsympathetic watch 
over the unfortunate lady so strangely given to his 
care. Rage and pity and the fierce joy of finding her 
in danger and sorrow under his roof were all wrestling 
in his mind again. 

Presently Elspeth reappeared in the room. 

“ She ’s in sair pain, laird,” she said, straining hard 
to keep her voice as unsympathetic as she could. 


Ejjie Hetherington. 147 

“ You used to ken something o’ medicines. Hae ye 
naething in the hoose that would ease her a wee ? 
She ’s near her time noo.” 

Douglas rose, and, taking a medicine chest from the 
cupboard, set to work with tremulous hands to concoct 
a cordial draught. Elspeth took it, and left him, and 
the time began to drag more and more wearily, till 
presently fatigue and long-continued emotion began 
to take their natural effect, and he nodded at intervals 
in his chair, waking from each short period of un- 
consciousness with a sudden, guilty start. 

The night was wearing towards morning, and still 
he waited. Suddenly a sound came to his ears ; he 
started to his feet and stood waiting for its repetition. 
All was quiet again, so quiet that he could hear the 
strong, muffled beating of his heart. He crept to the 
inner door leading to his bedroom, and opened it. 
The sound came again, plain and unmistakable. 

It was the cry of a new-born child. 


CHAPTER III. 


HOW THE WONDER GREW. 

“ There was silence strange and deep 
At our ain fire-en’, 

And the winds were a’ asleep 
At our ain fire-en’ . 

But the house at last was stirred. 

And a faint wee sound was heard, 

Like the cheeping of a bird, 

At our ain fire-en’.” 

The Birth-Song. 

T HE sound, repeated at intervals, troubled the 
stillness of the night, while Douglas, haggard 
and woe-begone, stood drinking it in, and clutching for 
support to the wood-work of the wall. Then there 
was a sound of moving to and fro, of low voices — 
E file’s faint and just distinguishable. Tottering like 
a drunken man, he crept back to the kitchen, sat down 
before the fire, and waited. 

Presently he heard footsteps, and Elspeth, grim as 
death, appeared before him, her eyes fixed on his. 
cc Did ye hear, laird ? ” she asked. 
u Yes,” he whispered, clutching her by the arm. 
u Tell me about it ! everything ! quick ! ” 


Effie Hetherington. 


149 


“ The curse o’ God is on this hoose ! ” said the old 
woman. “ A bairn is born, where never bride entered ; 
and there ’s neither gisson-robe, nor flannel, nor 
Christian comforting for the thing o’ sin. But I hae 
done your bidding, and nae howdie could do mair. 
The bairn lives, but I doot the mother is sinking 
fast.” 

“ Sinking ! ” echoed Douglas. “ No, no ; let me 
go to her,” and he rose to his feet. 

u Laird, laird ! ” cried Elspeth, clinging to him. 
w Tell me the truth, tell auld Elspeth, wha ’s been till 
ye as a foster-mither, and has rockit ye on the knee. 
It ’s a lassie bairn with blue een like the mother’s ; is 
it flesh and blood o’ yours ? ” 

He looked at her in despair, and the tears were 
streaming down his cheeks. 

u Yes, woman, mine — my bairn, whether she lives 
or dies ! Whatever is hers , whatever is born of her, is 
part of me, understand that, now and for ever ! Come, 
then.” 

He followed her along the lobby to the lonely room, 
and when she entered he followed. All was still in 
the chamber. Deathly white, her fair hair streaming 
round her face, Effie lay back insensible upon the 
pillow, and never, in the man’s eyes, had she seemed 
so beautiful. Half blind with tears, he approached the 
bedside and looked upon her. His bosom rose and 
fell convulsively, he shivered through and through. 
One white arm was extended outside the coverlet. 


Rffie Hetherington. 


l S° 

He reached down gently and felt the flickering pulse, 
then he turned to Elspeth and hurriedly whispered 
some instructions. All that he had learned as a lad, 
when walking the hospitals of Edinburgh, came back 
upon his memory, and in an instant he had decided 
what to do. The woman returned, bringing with 
her a bottle of spirits, a small portion of which he 
mixed in a tumbler, and with his right forefinger 
moistened the sufferer’s lips. Then he questioned 
Elspeth again in a low whisper, and found that no 
physician could have done the necessary duties better. 

All this time he kept his left finger on the patient’s 
pulse, and presently he felt it quicken beneath his 
pressure. Slowly Effie’s senses returned. She saw 
him, knew him, and turned her face away. 

All pain, all anger was swallowed up now in an 
infinite tenderness and pity, in an almost impersonal 
sympathy and yearning. 

u She ’ll live ! ” he said to himself. u Thank God, 
she ’ll live ! ” 

And with throbbing temples and dilated nostrils he 
drank in the warmth of some new life. Stimulated 
by his sympathy, Elspeth prepared food and brought it 
to the bedside, and then for the first time Douglas 
turned his eyes away and saw the child. 

It was lying, wrapt up warm, on the hearth, its 
cries stilled, its eyes closed — a little pink flower of life, 
just opening. As he bent over it, Elspeth touched 
him on the shoulder. 


Ejjie Hetherington . 1 5 1 

“ Gang noo, laird ! Lea’ me to do the rest ; this 
is nae place for a man.” 

He turned and met the eyes of Effie fixed wildly 
and imploringly on his. As meekly and quietly as 
the master of a house, at the bidding of a hired nurse, 
he stole from the room. 

How strange it all seemed, as he sat brooding alone 
by the great-ingle of the kitchen ! Here absolutely 
realised was an event which, if only imagined yesterday, 
would have driven him mad with jeal6usy and rage ; 
and here was he, Douglas of Douglas, accepting it all 
as natural, almost a matter of course ! There was not 
a spark of anger in his heart, not even a feeling of 
horror and surprise. He had asked her to come to him, 
and she had come, that was all. She was lying there, 
a mother, under his roof. She had ta.ken possession of 
his home and of him. There was nothing extra- 
ordinary in it all, nothing that awoke in him the old 
savagery, the old sorrow. She had done as he had 
bidden her, and she was there . 

From time to time, as the child’s cry came to his 
ears, he listened with a fierce sort of pleasure. It 
seemed for the moment as if Effie were his wife — the 
little one a part of his flesh and blood. All the rest 
was visionary and unreal. Whatever had happened, 
whatever might happen, Eflie was his now, only his. 
She had no part nor parcel with humanity beyond the 
bield. The wave of the world had washed her to 
him, and left her in his care. 


l 5 2 


Effie Hetherington . 


“ She ’s sleeping noo,” said Elspeth, entering softly 
and sitting down ; u and I put the bairn beside her, 
and it took the breast. She grat sair when she caught 
sight o’ you and saw ye creepin’ awa’ ; but she ate the 
cow’s whey and wat her lips wi’ the speerits, and then 
she closed her een. Her head ’s a bit light, but she ’s 
a strong lassie, and nae doot she ’ll live ! ” 

“You ought to ken,” returned Douglas. w ’T is 
not the first lass, by many, ye ’ve tended at such a 
time.” 

M But when the day dawns and the tale gangs roond, 
what ’ll the neebors say ? ’T will be lasting shame on 
the hoose o’ Douglas, unless you mak’ her your lawfu’ 
wife.” 

Douglas laughed bitterly, and lit his pipe. 
w Listen to me, woman,” he said. “ I told ye a 
lie. The bairn is no bairn of mine ! ” 

u Lord save us a’ ! Then wha ’s its faither ? ” 

“ Who knows or cares ? ” returned the laird. 
u Damn him, whoever he is ! and may be, by and by, 
he and I will have something to say to one another. 
But to-night let sleeping dogs lie.” 

“ Maybe he ’ll make her amends ! ” 
u Maybe ! ” 

u But if ye ’re speaking truth, laird, what brought 
the lassie here ? Shame upon her to carry her burthen 
to an honest man’s door ! ” 

“ She came where she was waited for ! ” answered 
Douglas fiercely, though his stern eyes again grew dim. 


EJfie Hetherington. 


l 5 3 


u Aye, woman, I ’d have waited through eternity to 
see this night ! It ’s meat and drink, life and blood, 
to know she ’s lying helpless here” 

The old woman looked at him in wonder. w Mad, 
like his faither ! ” she thought to herself, and ruefully 
shook her head. For how could she understand 
this man, who scarcely understood himself, whose 
passion, instead of ebbing away in wrath, rose to the 
full tide of pity and swelled with disdain of all the 
world, save the one human being who had done him 
the deadliest wrong of all ? 

The night wore away, and presently the grey dawn 
crept in, with chilly, luminous fingers, touching the 
familiar objects one by one. Elspeth had returned to 
the chamber, and Douglas still sat by the fire ; but as 
the light increased he rose and went to the door and 
looked out towards the sea. 

The mists of night were clearing rapidly away from 
the water, and here and there were long splashes of 
dusky silver under the slowly opening clouds. It was 
a calm, cold morning, with little or no wind. 

Haggard and pale with anxiety and want of rest, 
Douglas stood watching the morning break. Never, 
for many a long and desolate day, had his soul felt so 
utterly at peace. His face looked gentle in the light, 
as if a blessing fell upon it, and listening with a 
troubled heart, like that of stormy waters slowly sub- 
siding into rest, he again heard the child’s “ yaumer ” 
breaking the silence of the house. 


CHAPTER IV. 


HOW RICHARD DOUGLAS KEPT HIS WORD. 


“ And will ye hae my hoose, lady, 

And will ye hae my hand ? 

The hoose is toom, the land is bare, 

And empty is my hand ! 

But gin ye hunger still for mair. 

This bluidy knife I ’ll gie. 

Sae cut my briest, howk out the heart 
That ’s sick wi’ luve for thee ! ” 

Lord Langshaw. 

D RIVING once in a car through the wilds of 
Western Ireland, and looking aimlessly at the 
dreary prospect of bog and lough, I was suddenly 
startled by a small object darting close to me, and 
almost instantly a little grey linnet flew upon my 
bosom, and, fluttering downward, rested in my open 
hand. At the same moment a sparrow-hawk, which 
had been pursuing and had nearly secured the tiny 
fugitive, wheeled off close to the car and floated rapidly 
out of sight. The small bird, folding its wings, and 
looking round with frightened eyes, rested motionless 
in my palm and made no attempt to escape. It knew 
where it could find refuge and it was safe. There it 


EJfie Hetherington. 


1 55 


remained with quickly beating heart for some minutes ; 
but at last, finding that its pursuer had quite dis- 
appeared, I opened my hand, and the little fugitive 
flew away. 

Some such instinct as guided that poor bird had 
led Eflie Hetherington to the house of Douglas that 
night. 

In the extremity of her despair she had thought of 
the only living creature who might give her shelter 
in her shame, and save her possibly from misery and 
death. She had remembered his words, cc If ever you 
are sick or in trouble, if you have neither friend nor 
shelter, or even if you deserve neither (which God 
forbid ! ) come to me — I shall be prepared. What- 
ever changes, I shall be the same — that is, if I live. 
Trust me as you would trust your God — you may 
safely do so.” 

After hiding her secret until the very last, after 
hoping against hope that time might point out some 
way out of her trouble, she had realised in her despair 
that the time had come for full discovery, and there- 
upon, blind and sick with terror, she had flown from 
Castle Lindsay. Her first wild impulse was to destroy 
herself, and for several hours, in mortal agony, she had 
hung over the water of the running river, seeking for 
courage to leap therein ; but the idea of death terrified 
her, and, torn with both pain of the body and anguish 
of the soul, she had crept on, moaning, to the lonely 
house on the Moss. 


i 5 6 


Effie Hetherington . 


A man ignorant of the magnanimity of which 
masculine love is capable, might have said to her, w Of 
all dwellings in the world, go not there ; of all crea- 
tures in the world, avoid the creature whom you have 
maddened into hopeless love. ,, But, guided by her 
instinct, against her reason, she trusted in the man of 
men, and took her utter misery to him. The event 
justified her. The passion of Richard Douglas had 
burnt itself into a clear white flame of despairing 
devotion. Uncertain of all other succour in the 
world, she had come to him ; that was enough. 

Yet, perhaps, if she had known and comprehended 
everything, it would have terrified her. Even while 
he stood guardian over her, ready to give his life’s 
blood for her, the mad hunger of a wild beast was 
upon him. 

After the first wild rush of pitiful emotion, his 
thoughts travelled to the cause of her sorrow, and the 
fury of revenge burnt in the embers of his broken 
heart. He cherished one suspicion, which he deter- 
mined to verify at the first opportunity, and then 

In spite of this, never had she seemed so near and 
dear to him as in these weariful hours. 

The knowledge of her presence filled the air like a 
perfume, and the cry of the child troubled the house 
like a spell. The worst had come, his cup of misery 
had overflowed full measure, but she was there — 
there, in his dwelling — there, where no one would 
come to take her from him — there, for life or death. 


Effie Hetherington. 


l 57 


And he thought to himself : u Was ever love like 
mine ? Did ever man, in the hour of his own heart- 
breaking, cry aloud so truthfully, c God is good * ? ” 

“ And ‘ Hey, Annie ! ’ and ‘ How, Annie ! ’ 

And ‘ Annie, come hither to me ! ’ 

And aye the more that he cried ( Annie,’ 

The louder rair’d the sea !” 

She had come to him, she had come to him — in 
answer to his cry ; and the waves of the world might 
roll over them both now — he was content. 

Lonely as the house was, such an event could not 
occur without the tongue of gossip talking far and 
wide. Old Elspeth, in her necessary visits to the 
village, to purchase such things as were needful in the 
emergency of new birth, spread the news unwittingly, 
and soon it was well known that a woman had come 
by night to the dwelling, and had given birth to a 
child. Rumour circulated various accounts of the 
difficulty, but the favourite impression was that the 
shame, if shame there were, had been brought home 
to the right door. 

In the South of Scotland such little accidents 
happen, as the student of statistics well knows, pretty 
frequently. The Scottish marriage laws, with their 
beneficent retrospective action, encourage the vagaries 
of lovers, and do not of necessity visit the sins or 
follies of the parents on the heads of innocent 
children. Illegitimacy, therefore, is not an irre- 


Effie Hetherington. 


158 

trievable evil ; after the birth of a child may come 
the child’s legitimization and the Kirk’s blessing. 

In another respect, too, the Scottish law is con- 
siderate. A man and woman may be lawfully married 
without clerical or clerkly assistance ; it is sufficient 
that they declare themselves, before witnesses, to be 
husband and wife, and live together on that footing. 
The knowledge of this fact made many folk speculate 
whether Richard Douglas and Effie Hetherington 
were already, or meant to be, wedded. In that case, 
the accident was an ordinary one, soon to be for- 
gotten. 

On the morning of the second day, when Effie was 
out of all danger, and every necessity for child and 
mother had been provided out of the laird’s purse, a 
tall figure approached the open door and greeted 
Douglas, who was standing there, by name. 

Lean and spare, with mild blue eyes which seemed 
to belie the severity of his firm-set, clean-shaven 
mouth, appeared the grey-headed minister of the 
Established Church, Peter Macnab. In the eyes 
of the grave minister of the Established Church, 
Douglas was somewhat of a heathen, and out of the 
holy pale ; but the news of what had occurred had 
travelled to the manse, and an immediate mission to 
the heathen had become necessary. 

“ Fine weather,” said Mr. Macnab, beginning, as 
usual, with generalities. “ The harvest will be 


Effie Hetherington . 


1 S9 


Douglas nodded, but, still blocking the doorway, 
made no attempt to lead the way into the house. 

w You ken, or guess maybe, what has brought me 
here, sir ? ” pursued the minister. u Although you 
are not a member of my flock, I have felt constrained 
to pay you a kindly visitation. May I ask, in the 
first place, if the young person is doing well — I mean, 
of course, physically — for I have heard that her con- 
dition has been perilous ? ” 

u It has,” replied Douglas ; “ but the danger ’s 
past.” 

“ And the bairn new-born ? ” 
tc Well, too,” was the grim reply. 

The minister coughed nervously, for the laird’s 
manner was not encouraging. Then he said, with 
decision — 

u Maybe, poor soul ! she would like to see a 
minister of the Church ? In that case, Mr. Douglas, 
I shall be happy to communicate with her at once.” 

u She shall have your message,” returned Douglas, 
with a dark smile ; u but at present she can see no 

, >> 

one. 

u Related to you, may I ask ? ” 

« No.” 

u Not, then, your wife, as some have told me ? ” 

“ Neither my wife nor my kinswoman by blood.” 
u And her little one, poor innocent lamb ! Its 
father ?” 

Without replying, Douglas drew out his pipe, lit it 


i6o 


Effie Hetherington. 


with a match, and smoked quietly, with his eyes on 
the far-off sea. 

“ You are disposed, I see, to refuse me any informa- 
tion ? ” 

Douglas nodded. 

w Yet I am interested, righteously interested, in an 
event so singular. I know,” continued the minister, 
with increasing warmth, u that you have peculiar 
views of your own, both on religion and morality.” 

u So far from being peculiar,” replied Douglas, u my 
views are shared by a large portion of mankind.” 

M And they are ? ” 

<c If I expressed them, you ’d think me a savage, as 
maybe I am. Maybe ’tis enough to say that I feel 
more honoured than pleased by this visit.” 

The minister’s pale cheek flushed faintly. 

M I know, Mr. Douglas, that you are not a com- 
municant of our church.” 

w Nor of any,” answered Douglas, with a shrug of 
his powerful shoulders. u When I want religion, 
which is seldom, I look up yonder. When I seek 
comfort, ’t is not near the kirkyard or the kirk-porch. 
The crows may be useful, and so may the black coats, 
but I never care to see them swarming near my 
bield.” 

u If you mean, sir, that you ’re an unbeliever, an 
atheist ” 

At this moment the voice of old Elspeth came from 
within — 


Effie Hetherington. 


1 6 1 


“ Laird, will ye come ben ? She ’s up, and setting 
by the kitchen fire ! ” 

“ I insist on seeing this person ! ” cried Mr. Mac- 
nab, moving towards the open door. 

w And / insist,” said Douglas, blocking the way, 
u that you go home and leave her and me in peace. 
You sha’n’t torture her with your curiosity, or bore 
her with your sermons. I ’m sorry to seem rude ; but 
there ’s your road.” 

And pointing to the path across the Moss, he 
turned, entered the house, and closed the door. Dis- 
gusted, indignant, and amazed, the clergyman stood 
hesitating for some minutes, and then, turning on his 
heel, shook the dust off his feet, and walked away, 
not without an angry determination to improve the 
occasion on the following Sunday. 

Pale and agitated, Douglas walked towards the 
kitchen. There he paused, as if unable to brave the 
ordeal which was before him. But his strong will 
conquered, and he was soon standing, pale as death, 
before the woman of his hopeless love. 

White as snow, propped up by pillows in the arm- 
chair by the fire, sat Effie Hetherington, her infant 
sleeping in her arms. The moment the laird’s eyes 
fell upon her, hers filled with tears, and, sobbing 
bitterly, she turned her face away. 

w Don’t cry, Effie ! ” he said gently. M It ’s poor 
comfort to say it, but what ’s done can ne’er be 
mended.” 


n 


162 


Effie Hetherington. 


Elspeth, who stood by looking, her eyes sharp as 
needles, and every sense alert, muttered as if to 
herself — 

“ Mended, is it ? Ye canna mend the pitcher that 
breaks at the well, but a heart may be bruisit and no’ 
broken.” 

“ Silence, Elspeth ! ” cried Douglas. “ And leave 
the room ! ” 

Still murmuring, Elspeth shuffled away, for she 
knew her master too well to cross him at such 
moments. 

Turning quietly to Effie, who was still hysterically 
sobbing, Douglas looked long and wearily at her and 
upon the child ; and even then a mist came before 
him, and his heart seemed failing, and his voice failed 
to gather strength. At last, sighing heavily, he sat 
down in the ingle, and held his face between his 
hands. 

Effie, who was watching him through her tears, 
grew silent. There was a long, despairing pause. 
At last Douglas looked up, and his face was worn 
and lined as the face of an old man. 

“ Effie ! ” 

“ Yes, Mr. Douglas,” she answered, sobbing. 

u Will you listen to me, my woman ? Can ye 
listen ? I ’m not here to utter one word of reproach, 
or to cast one stone of blame. I bade ye trust me, 
and you ’ve done it ; I bade ye come to me, and you ’ve 
come. Happy or sorrowful, smiling or weeping, 


Effie Hetherington. 


163 


you ’ve passed into my life. I love you now as I 
loved you when we first met, as I shall love you with 
my dying breath.” 

u Oh, don’t speak of it ! ” she moaned. w I ’ve 
used you cruelly, and you ’re my only friend ! ” 

“ Thank God for that ! Your friend, always your 
friend ! and now I say it, before God, I would n’t 
change that friendship for all else the world could give. 
I ’m a strange man, I ken, and little skilled in the 
speech that wins its way to the heart of a woman ; 
but maybe you ’ll understand. It ’s this, then, Effie 
dear ; no shame nor sin can kill a love like mine. 
Though you were a thousand times more shamed and 
sorrowful, though you were low as the straw folk 
tread in the mire, ye ’d still be more to me than life, 
and dearer to me than God ! ” 

He spoke in a low voice, but every word was dis- 
tinct and clear, and while she cried and listened she 
felt his hand laid lightly on her shoulder, while his 
breath was on her brow. 

u Do you understand this, Effie, my doo ? Have I 
made things clear at last ? ” 

Trembling convulsively, she reached up, took his 
hand, drew it to her lips and kissed it ; then, with a 
wild sob, she hung her head over the child. 

“ Yes, yes ! ” she cried. “ But I ’m not worth 
crying for — I’m not, indeed ! ” 

u Do you think men love what ’s worth ? ” 1 he said 
1 Scottish idiom. 


164 


Effie Hetherington. 


gently. “ No, my lass. Love ’ s love, and with that, 
all ’s said and done. I ’ve bidden for ye with my life, 
with my flesh and blood, with the whole heart that ’s 
within me, and I’m not beaten even yet. Tell me 
how to save you, Effie ! Tell me how to lift the 
shame from this bonnie head ! Tell me how to give 
my soul for yours, and you ’ll be showing me the 
gates of heaven ! ” 

“ It ’s too late ! You can do nothing — nothing ! ” 
u Not even for this little one ? ” he pleaded softly. 
“ Maybe I can. Tell me this, Effie — will the man 
marry you, and give this bairn a name ? ” 

With something of the old flash in her eyes Effie 
looked up into his face. 

“ He cannot, and he will not ! There ’s no hope — 
none ! ” 

u Tell me his name ! ” 
u No, no ; I ’ll never do that ! ” 

“ Put me face to face with him, and he shall right 
you, by God ! ” 

His look terrified her ; she shrunk away, moaning, 
but the wild, unspoken threat passed away from his 
face like a lightning flash, and left his features grey 
and sorrowful. 

w Let that pass,” he said, u since there ’s no hope 
there ; and oh, Effie, I ’m glad and grateful that it ’s 
hopeless, for I ’d have your last and only comfort 
come through me. Listen, my lass ! There ’s one 
way yet. No man shall flight you. No living soul 


Ejjie Hetherington . 165 

shall cast a stone at you. You shall be my wife, and 
your bairn shall take my name ! ” 

She uttered a cry of wonder, and again looked up 
at him. His face was ashen white, but gentle beyond 
expression. 

“ You ’d marry me — me? ” she cried. 

u I ’d marry you, Effie, if this dear shape were like 
Herod’s, and eaten up by worms. I ’d take you as 
God’s best gift, if you were a leper among women ! ” 

His words terrified her, and she shrank from his 
touch as she had shrunk from it of old. 

“ Don’t ! don’t ! ” she cried ; and he realised once 
more, in his extremity, that old repugnance of the 
flesh — saw again in the wild, sad eyes that no gleam 
of love was there. 

“ But don’t misunderstand me any more,” he added 
sadly. “ I love you still, body and soul, but what I 
offer you is a free and unselfish gift. Take my name, 
Effie. Let me save you, and I swear to you that I ’ll 
be no more than a servant in your house, than a dog 
to guard your door. That ’s all I ask, my lass — to 
give you the last gift I have left, that you may bide 
here, or go hence, a blameless woman, sheltered from 
scandal by my name.” 

He paused, waiting for her reply, and as he did so 
the child wakened and cried for the breast. He 
turned his face away, sick with despair, and then, by 
the silence which ensued, knew that the little one’s 
lips were drawing life and sustenance from the mother’s 


1 66 


Effie Hetherington. 


veins. Without a word, he left the kitchen and 
walked out into the air, following a favourite walk 
which led over the Moss to the sea-sands. 

There was little or no wind, and the smooth waves 
were tumbling in and breaking on the shore with a 
peaceful murmur. Patches of blue sky opened over- 
head, but all the rest of heaven was silver cloud, 
reflected with a cold-steel-like glimmer in the waters 
of the Firth. Great gulls hovered over the line of 
foam, and flocks of red-billed oyster-catchers winged 
from wet spot to spot as the tide receded. 

He paced up and down, meditating. For how 
many a weary year he had done the same thing, 
watching the gloomy Firth and the faint hills of 
Kircudbright beyond, and always with that hunger in 
his heart, like the hunger of the restless waves. 

The spirit of self-sacrifice, the zeal for martyrdom, 
grows with acts of abnegation. A proud and savage 
man, hating the world and living in solitude, Douglas 
had put his neck under the heel of one woman, and 
the more he had debased his manhood in so doing, 
the stronger grew his luxury of humiliation. His 
only hope of moral salvation seemed to lie that way. 
There was no deed of self-abasement of which he did 
not now feel capable. 

Yet now and then, as he thought of that other 
man, as yet unknown to him, who had come between 
him and his dream of happiness, who had poisoned the 
very fountain of his passion, his face grew murderous 


Effie Hetherington. 


167 


and savage, and as the measure of his pity for Effie 
Hetherington was his blood-thirst against her betrayer. 
He did n’t pause to reflect, as saner men might have 
done, how long a chain of cheats and lies the girl 
herself must have been weaving ; how, even when she 
was brightest and merriest with him, a coquettish and 
sweet comrade, she must have been hiding this secret 
in her breast ! He was too much lost morally to 
dispense full justice to her , the light woman who had 
brought him so much woe — nay, he almost exonerated 
and justified her. 

u She was honest with me from the first,” he said 
to himself. u I was her friend and comrade — nothing 
more. She warned me never to expect more than a 
friend might grant. . . . And yet ! and yet ! — it 
might have been merciful to leave me in peace ! She 
played with my friendship, poor lass ! although she 
knew it was love. She brought me the joy of her 
presence to keep my soul alive, and when her words 
were crudest her disposition was most kind. And 
now, even now, ’t is as clear as daylight that she has 
come hither only in despair.” 

The man’s knowledge of women was scant indeed. 
He had known only two types — the conventional 
woman who is pure, chaste, and passionless, regulating 
her life calmly by the written letter of the law, and 
the woman who sells herself in the market, without 
one thought or care save for her own immediate self- 
indulgence. Effie resembled neither. She was a 


1 68 


Effie Hetherington. 


chameleon born out of the conflicting forces of these 
latter days — too pure to yield herself to what did not 
attract her physically, too full of passion to make the 
written law her strength and guide — a child who 
could weep hysterically at will, and be pitiful over a 
wounded bird or withered flower — a woman strenuously 
assertive of her own capricious nature. So pitiful, so 
pitiless ! So cruel, yet so kind ! How often, during 
these strange meetings, amid their sweet confidences 
and gusty quarrels, had Douglas hated himself, loathed 
the coarseness of his manhood, and yearned for the 
physical charms of men like Arthur Lamont ! No 
military fop of the period had looked so often in the 
mirror, and always with the same despairing question, 
u What is there here to awaken a young girl’s love ? ” 
His very strength and vigour of life were hateful to 
him. And always in Effie’s presence he had felt 
at a disadvantage — savage, restless, irritable, and ill 
at ease, conscious of the fact that she found him 
ungracious and incapable of fascination. He felt that 
at any moment all his devotion would become worth- 
less compared with the vapid, well-bred ease of some 
light worldling, some puppy which could rise on its 
hind-legs and drawl and dance. 

So was it in the beginning, so is it, and ever shall 
be. Worth and true manhood count for nothing with 
women of the chameleon species. Earnestness is dull 
and tiresome, passion a monster with coarse and bad 
manners, kindling weariness and disgust. It is only 


Effie Hetherington. 


169 


when bruised and cruelly broken that such women 
discover, too late, that life is not all prettiness and 
pleasant seeming ; but even then, in their despair, 
they feel, as Effie Hetherington felt, the old repulsion 
against what is physically unpleasing. The twirl of 
a moustache, the cut of a coat, the movement of a 
hand, the curve of a throat avail far more than any 
splendour of the Soul. 

Seen in the still light of that late summer morn- 
ing, Richard Douglas looked every inch a man — 
well-built and powerful, strong, masterful, with a face 
that might have been carved out of grey marble 
by Michael Angelo. The strength of moral self- 
sacrifice at which he had arrived, the power of 
humiliating himself before an ideal, had dignified the 
very body of the man ; he held himself erect, like a 
gladiator of the arena about to plunge the sword into 
his own breast. Against all living things but one he 
was fully armed and resolute ; against that one helpless 
as a child — helpless, not through feebleness, but 
through the power of his own absolute wish and 
will. 

When after an hour he returned to the house, he 
found that Elspeth had taken the child away, and that 
Effie was sitting in the same place, dozing, her eyes 
closed. 

Thinking that she slept, he endeavoured to retire 
on tiptoe, but her eyes opened, and she beckoned to 
him. 


170 


Fjjfie Hetherington. 


“ I ’m not sleeping,” she said, with a ghost of her 
old smile. u I ’m thinking — thinking over what you 
said a little while ago. In all the world I think there 
is no other man like you ; I know that now, when it 
is too late. Believe me, if the time could roll back 
and make me a happy girl again, I should know you 
better. But I ’m grateful, very grateful, and I thank 
you with all my heart.” 

As she spoke, the sad smile faded and the warm 
tears were rolling down her cheek. Trembling, she 
held out her thin, white hand. He took it, and 
pressed it gently between his own. The soft, silken 
flesh he grasped was cold as clay. 

“ And you will let me serve you ? ” he said. 

u No,” she answered, w not that way ; I ’ve wronged 
you too much already. Not even for the sake of the 
child.” 

u In God’s name, why ? ” 

“ Because it would be heaping sin upon sin ; 
because it would be degrading you and not helping 
me ; and because, last of all — because — I love the 
man who has made me what I am.” 

u He has left you. You yourself have told me 
that he will never make amends.” 

u Never. I knew long ago that he could never do 
so. You’ve no right to pity me, Mr. Douglas. I 
walked into the trouble with my eyes open — of my 
own free will. There was no deception, no broken 
vows, no lies on either side. I liked him, and I 


Effie Hetherington . 


171 


hated another woman — that was all. That other 
woman is now his wife.” 

In an instant the truth flashed upon him, and she, 
too, as she uttered the words, saw that she had 
betrayed herself. 

u Arthur Lamont ! ” he cried. 

She gave one wild look into his face, and covered 
her face with both hands, sobbing hysterically. He 
stood as if struck by lightning, and then, clenching 
his fists, uttered a frightful imprecation. 

u Arthur Lamont ! ” he repeated. u I might have 
guessed it. Arthur Lamont ! Do you know this y 
woman : he came back to the Castle with his lady last 
night ? ” 

w Last night ! ” she echoed through her sobs, with 
a cry of surprise. 

u Yes. He ’s there , and I shall see him ! ” 

But as he moved, livid with passion, she reached 
out her hands and entreated him to stay. He paused 
irresolutely, and their eyes met. 

u You must not meet ! ” she pleaded. u I tell you 
Arthur is not to blame. I loved him — I thought 
perhaps that he would throw over Lady Bell and 
make me his wife. It was all my doing, not his. 
Promise me — promise me — you won’t harm him ! ” 
“ I ’ll promise nothing till I’ve seen him face to face.” 
u What will it avail ? Nothing. I know he cares 
for me, that he will be sorry, but I know that he 
cannot help me. No one can help me now.” 


CHAPTER V. 


HOW ARTHUR LAMONT CAME HOME. 

“ O what is this, and wha is this, 

Has stown my love frae me ? 

Altho’ he were my ain brother, 

An ill death shall he dee ! ” 


Bonny Baly Livingston. 


ORTUNATELY, at the time of Effie’s flight, 



the Earl was away in Edinburgh, and the 
house was given over to the housekeeper and the 
servants. The housekeeper, Mrs. Wylie, a severe 
old lady of the Calvinistic persuasion, had never 
looked on Effie Hetherington with eyes of love ; 
indeed, there had been tacit war between them for 
many a long day. Long before the crisis came the 
housekeeper had had her suspicions, which she had 
not been slow in communicating to the underlings of 
the establishment. But what drove poor Effie to 
desperation was the news that Arthur and Lady Bell 
were coming home. 

Forty-eight hours before their arrival every soul in 
Castle Lindsay knew the cause of Effie’s sudden dis- 


Effie Hetherington. 


1 73 


appearance — knew, that is to say, that the girl had 
become a mother, and was sheltering under the roof 
of Douglas. Mrs. Wylie, moving about the great 
house like its gaoler, with a chatelaine to which were 
attached numerous keys, looked grimly important, in 
the manner of all minor prophets. What she had 
long predicted had come true : Miss Hetherington 
was a black sheep. 

Late in the evening the wedded pair arrived. 
Arthur looked bored and blase. Lady Bell full of 
zeal and animal spirits. Mrs. Wylie, with the butler 
at her elbow, and the servants ranged behind her, 
stood on the threshold to receive them j and as they 
came up the steps from the carriage, there was a 
general curtsey. 

“ Will your leddyship dine at eight, as usual ? ” 
asked the housekeeper, after the first greetings were 
over. 

u Yes, I think so,” said Lady Bell, and swept 
away, followed by her lady’s-maid. 

Before following her upstairs, Arthur, who had 
been looking round somewhat nervously, lingered to 
ask a question. 

“ When did Miss Hetherington leave for Edin- 
burgh ? ” 

u Miss Hetherington,” answered the housekeeper, 
with a face as grim as a stone mask, “ left the hoose 
three days syne, Mr. Arthur.” 

Arthur nodded, for the information caused him 


x 74 


Effie Hetherington. 


little surprise, it having been long arranged that Effie 
should depart before the home-coming, and join some 
distant relations in the north. He strolled carelessly 
up the staircase, quite unconscious of the looks 
exchanged between Mrs. Wylie and the butler, and 
the glances and whispers exchanged between the 
servants. 

Upstairs, in the rooms prepared for her reception, 
Lady Bell yielded herself to the ministrations of her 
maid, and prepared herself for dinner. She looked 
radiant, and almost pretty ; but when the first bell 
rang, and her toilette was almost concluded, she found 
herself face to face with Mrs. Wylie. 

u With your leddyship’s permeession, I ’d wish to 
speak to your leddyship.” 

cc Humph ! won’t it do to-morrow morning ? ” 

The housekeeper shook her head, and at her desire 
Lady Bell dismissed her attendants, and, anticipating 
some tiresome report concerning the menage , or some 
complaint about the inferior servants, she threw her- 
self in a large chair beside the looking-glass. At that 
moment there was a knock at the door. 
u May I come in ? ” said Arthur. 
u Yes, of course ! ” cried his wife, as Arthur 
appeared at the door in full evening-dress, and making 
a cigarette. u Only Mrs. Wylie wished to talk to me 
in private ; but I suppose she won’t mind 

u It ’s no’ a subject I ’m caring to discuss before 
gentlemen,” said Mrs. Wylie, trembling indignantly ; 


Effie Hetherington. 


x 75 


11 but maybe Mr. Arthur ought to ken. It ’s aboot — 
Miss Hetherington.” 

Lady Bell looked surprised, Arthur uncomfortably 
nervous. 

“ Well, what about her ?” demanded Lady Bell, 
sharply. 

u It ’s jest this, your leddyship. Three night syne 
she left the hoose, without a word o’ warning, and 
she ’s biding noo thereawa’, in the hoose of the Laird 
o’ Douglas.” 

Lady Bell sprang to her feet, laughing. “ Arthur, 
what did I tell you ? I wager my little finger that 
it ’s a match ! Whether they ’ve married in kirk, 
or have only jumped over a broomstick, it ’s a 
match ! ” 

u The warst ’s to come, your leddyship,” said the 
housekeeper, dryly ; “ and auld tho’ I am, it ’s a thing 
I blush to name. The night Miss Hetherington left 
Castle Lindsay she became a mither, and baith she 
and the bairn are biding thereawa’ wi’ the laird.” 

Arthur Lamont turned white as death, and, leaning 
back against the woodwork of the door, gazed at the 
housekeeper in consternation. As for Lady Bell, she 
seemed startled, but not thunderstruck. 

“ A child ? Effie Hetherington has had a child ! ” 
she exclaimed. “ Arthur, do you hear ? ” 

He did hear, and had much ado to master his 
emotion, but he managed to say, nervously fingering 
his cigarette — 


176 


Effie Hetherington. 


“ Oh, it ’s impossible ! ” 

“ It ’s Gospel truth, Mr. Arthur ! ” said Mrs. Wylie. 
u A bairn — a lassie bairn — they ’re saying, and in 
yon hoose, where there ’s only a strange man and an 
auld wife ! ” 

At that moment the gong sounded below. Arthur 
collected himself by a mighty effort. 

“ It ’s a queer business,” he said, with as much sang- 
froid as he could command ; “ but I daresay it has a 
simple enough explanation. Come, Bell, let ’s go 
down to dinner.” 

u Of course they ’re married ! ” exclaimed Lady Bell, 
as they went down. u Effie was always so sly and 
secret, and I always knew she favoured that man.” 

They dined together in state, conversing only in 
monosyllables, and making no furthur allusion to the 
news they had heard ; but after dinner was over Lady 
Bell dismissed the servants, and, instead of repairing 
solitary to the drawing-room, remained with her 
husband while he smoked his cigar — he seated in an 
armchair, she occupying a stool at his feet. Irksome 
as he felt her presence, and eager as he was to be 
alone to think it all over, Arthur kept his feelings 
to himself, and was tender and solicitous as a bride- 
groom. 

u What are you thinking about, little woman ? ” 
he said, after a long pause, during which his wife had 
been gazing thoughtfully at the fire. 

u About Effie Hetherington. It is, as you said, 


r 


Effie Hetherington . 177 

such a queer business. But shall I tell you the truth, 
Arthur ? I ’m glad she ’s gone for good.” 

“ Why ? ” 

u I never liked her.” 

“ No ? ” 

u And she was a born flirt ! It would be horrible, 
though, if she had made a fool of herself and scan- 
dalised the family. You must ride over to-morrow 
and ascertain the truth about the matter.” 

u In any case,” said Arthur, “ you won’t be too 
hard upon her ? She has her faults, of course, but 
she was always affectionate.” 

w Oh, very ! ” said Lady Bell, with a cutting laugh. 
“ I know she tried to make me feel jealous ! ” 

tc Absurd ! ” 

w Confession, Arthur ! You never really cared for 
her, did you ? ” 

“ Of course I did,” answered Arthur, smiling ; 
u that is, in a brotherly sort of way ; but now ” 

The rest of the sentence was lost in a mutual kiss 
and embrace. 

Long after Lady Bell had retired to rest Arthur 
Lamont pondered the situation. 

During his absence abroad he had received only 
two letters from Effie addressed to him at u postes 
restantes,” and the last of them, in a torrent of wild 
agony and despair, had warned him of her condition. 
There had been no intimation, however, that the 
crisis was so imminent, and in answer to it he had 


12 


i 7 8 


Effie Hetherington. 


merely warned her to get away from Castle Lindsay 
as soon as possible, and to seek shelter among 
strangers until the storm was over. This warning, 
he now discovered, had been unheeded, and the disas- 
trous results were now apparent. 

But the annoying part of the whole business was 
the news that she was sheltering in the house of 
Douglas. There , of all places ! What madness had 
guided her thither ? Was it possible that Effie was 
cunninger than he suspected, and perhaps a little less 
worthy of consideration ? that, in plain words, she was 
going to make one lover the scapegoat of the other ? 
It certainly looked like it, and if so, well ! A scandal 
might be avoided after all. 

Again and again he cursed himself for having 
incurred so great a danger. He had made an excel- 
lent marriage, and Lady Bell was a much more 
charming wife than he had anticipated — considerate, 
not exacting — womanly and affectionate. It was 
irritating beyond measure, at such a time, to have to 
face the consequences of an old folly. His fancy for 
Effie had quite flown away. Even the thought that 
Douglas might have been his rival scarcely caused 
him a heart-thrill. If (as Lady Bell suggested) Effie 
was married to Douglas, he was certain, from what he 
knew of the girl’s character, that she would never 
betray his secret. 

Well, whatever the consequences might be, he had 
to see them through. If the worst came to the 


Effie Hetherington . 


179 


worst, and Lady Bell ascertained the truth, he was 
certain that even then he would not lose her. She 
might not be super-sensitive ; her love for him was 
not of the sort which rushes to dangerous extremes. 
She might make things uncomfortable for a time, but 
with patience she would be soon won over, especially 
if the other woman, whom she so cordially detested, 
went under altogether. 

The next day Arthur was abroad early, inspecting 
the stables and outbuildings, looking over the shrub- 
beries and orchards, and generally surveying the 
estate. When he came in to an early lunch, Lady 
Bell asked him if he proposed going over to make 
inquiries about Effie. Perhaps, he said, but there 
was no hurry for a day, and he had to interview the 
lawyers. 

u You’ll be inundated with callers, little woman,” 
he said ; w so don’t be angry if I make myself 
scarce.” 

She smiled and kissed him, and he strolled away. 
All the afternoon carriages and conveyances of all 
kinds rolled up to the Castle, and Lady Bell held levee 
in the great drawing-room. She loved her new posi- 
tion, and felt thoroughly happy, the more so as her 
husband had seemed as indifferent as herself to the 
fate of Effie Hetherington. 

The head-keeper had no unpleasant reports to make. 
The head water-bailiff, however, had a different tale 
to tell. Night after night, from one point to 


Effie Hetherington. 


1 80 

another, the river was being poached, and, though 
the salmon had been swarming up, they had been 
captured almost as soon as they reached the pools. 
The poachers were a wild gang, headed by one 
Hew Howard, a desperado in all matters where 
game of any kind was concerned ; and the bailiffs, 
though they knew their men, were no match for 
them, and always unable to take them in flagrante 
delicto. 

Arthur stood with Morrison, the head-bailiff, lean- 
ing over the bridge within the castle grounds. Just 
above them was a low weir, at the foot of which both 
grilse and salmon were thronging en bloc , and with 
leap upon leap, flashing in the sunlight, making their 
way to the Lang Pool, the finest cast in all the waters. 

w There was a fresh last night, Mr. Arthur,” said 
Morrison ; u but the river ’s running down, and they ’ll 
be netting the water the nicht, for there ’s nae moon. 
I ’ve stuck whins and brambles all owre the muckle 
pool, but ’t would tak’ mair than that to beat Hew 
Howard.” 

“ Shoot the fellow ! ” said Arthur ; tc shoot them 
all ! ” 

“Well, sir, two can play at that game, and we’re 
six to Hew’s sixteen.” 

As the bailiff spoke, there appeared, walking slowly 
over the bridge, with a small fishing-creel under his 
arm, a ragged giant, six foot high, black-haired and 
dark-complexioned, slouching of gait, and generally 


Effie Hetherington. 


1 8 1 


disreputable. This was the very Hew Howard of 
whom they had been speaking, a rascal who combined 
lawful shoe-making with unlawful tampering with all 
products of land and water. 

“ The very man ! ” exclaimed Arthur ; while Hew 
grinned savagely and made a sulky salutation. “ What 
are you doing here ? Why are you trespassing in the 
grounds ? ” 

u Nae offence, Mr. Arthur,” was the reply. 
“ Ye ’re welcome back to Castle Lindsay. I ’ve two 
or three flukes here and twa bonnie lobsters frae the 
Firth, and I ’m taking them to the kitchen as a present 
till Lady Bell.” 

So saying, he opened his creel, and revealed the 
flounders and lobsters in question. Morrison shrugged 
his shoulders contemptuously, and scowled at the 
offering. 

“You infernal scoundrel!” said Arthur, shaking 
his cane. “ Don’t think to humbug me with your 
pretended gifts! Get out of this, and remember, I 
warn you. The next time you come fishing on our 
waters I ’ll shoot you like a dog.” 

“ Serve you right, too ! ” added the indignant water- 
bailiff. 

An ugly look passed over Hew’s determined face, 
but it was followed by another savage grin. 

“ Maybe Mr. Morrison has ta’en awa’ my char- 
acter ? It ’s no’ me that nets the sawmon, ye ken 
weel.” 


182 


Effie Hetherington. 


“ Well, you know what you may expect. I mean 
what I say, my man.” 

“ I ’ll tak’ tent, Mr. Arthur,” was the reply ; “ but 
they ’re telling me in the clachan that the lads wha 
poach your pools (mair shame to them !) carry fire- 
arms as weel.” Turning on his heel, he added, with a 
chuckle, “ And ye ’ll no hae the flukes, Mr. Arthur ? ” 
w After that warning,” said Arthur, as Hew dis- 
appeared from sight, u I think there ’s not much 
danger. He knows what he has to expect.” 

u That ’s true, sir,” answered Morrison ; u but he 
fears neither ball nor powther, man nor deil. I saw 
his een sparkle as he watched the clean-run fish 
louping yonder, and he ’ll be here wi’ the nets this 
night.” 

u How many watchers have you ? ” 
u Four on the upper waters, three below.” 

“ Double them.” 

u It ’s no’ easy at sic short notice, but I ’ll try.” 

“ Go to Innes, the keeper, and tell him to bring 
all his men with their guns. By Jove ! we ’ll teach 
these rascals a lesson.” 

“ But, Mr. Arthur, it ’s clean against the law. Ye 
mind the trouble we had last year, when Hew’s 
brither was wounded in the airm. If the man had 
died, Innes would hae been tried for his life.” 

“ Do as I tell you,” returned Arthur, coldly. “ If 
the law won’t help us, we ’ll take the law into our 
own hands.” 


Effie Hetherington . 


183 


That evening Arthur did not dress for dinner, but 
retained his rough shooting-dress, explaining to Lady 
Bell the state of affairs. Well accustomed to such 
little difficulties, she merely implored him to be care- 
ful and keep out of danger. 

It was quite dark when Arthur took his gun, 
fastened his cartridge belt around his waist, and 
smoking his cigar, strolled through the shrubberies to 
the river-side. In the excitement of a possible adven- 
ture he had forgotten about Effie Hetherington. 

The sun had gone quietly down, but there had 
been several heavy showers, just enough to freshen 
the river without raising the pools and rendering 
them too deep for wading. All was still and peaceful 
save for the occasional cry of an “old wife,” or owl, 
from the dark woodlands. Gaining the river, Arthur 
stood waiting and listening. It had been arranged 
that Morrison and the rest should meet at the highest 
pool, about a mile and a half away, and work slowly 
down to the bridge, where Arthur was to meet them ; 
but the watch was likely to occupy all night, as the 
poachers might make their appearance any time before 
daybreak. 

He had finished one cigar, and was lighting another, 
when he heard the sound of footsteps. He started, 
dropped the match, and stood with his gun in readi- 
ness. 

“ Who ’s there ? ” he cried. “ Is it you, Morrison ? 
Or it is you, Innes ? ” 


184 


Fjffie Hetherington . 


As he spoke he saw in the dimness a figure stand- 
ing close to him. There was just enough light, in 
the first afterglow of the summer evening, for him to 
recognise it. 

“ Mr. Douglas ? ” 

M Yes,” answered Douglas. 

“ I took you for one of the bailiffs,” said Arthur, 
forcing a laugh, “ or for one of those infernal poachers. 
But what brings you here ? ” 

“ I came to look for you” 

“ Indeed ? ” 

u Yes, indeed. You know what has happened? 
Speak — out with it ! ” 

The words were so fierce and savage, the gesture 
which accompanied them so fierce and threatening, 
that the young man recoiled, gripping his gun, but 
almost instantly the gun was torn from his grasp and 
flung violently into the river. 

u Help, there ! ” 

But at the cry, Douglas had pinned him by the 
arms and held him as in a vice. 

“ You devil! You smoothed-tongued, lying, 
treacherous devil ! Do you ken what you owe me ? 
Your life, your miserable life ! ” 

Though amazed and terrified, Arthur Lamont 
found his voice again. 

“ Let me go, you savage ! Do you want to murder 
me ? ” 

“ It would be no murder ; it would be only killing 


Effie Hetherington. 185 

a reptile. Down on your knees ! Pray as you never 
prayed before ! Your time ’s come ! ” 

Helpless as a child in the laird’s powerful grip, 
Arthur found himself forced down upon his knees in 
the long wet grass, and there, struggling in vain, he 
cried — 

u Are you mad ? What have I done ! ” 

He saw the laird’s face thrust close to his, and met 
the glitter of two burning eyes. 

u You’ve staked your life and lost,” said Douglas. 
w If you could make amends I ’d drag you to her feet, 
and fling ye down there for her to forgive or damn. 
But ye can’t, ye can’t, and so there ’s but one way left ! 
Now, Arthur Lamont, the truth ! Lying won’t save 
you. The truth ! It was you drove Effie Hethering- 
ton to shame ? You ’re the father of her child ? ” 
u Let me go,” panted Arthur, “ and I ’ll answer 
you. You ’re strangling me.” 

With an oath Douglas released his hold, and Arthur 
struggled to his feet ; but the man’s iron grip was 
still upon him, holding him to his place. 
u The truth ! Speak ! ” 

w It may be as you say,” gasped Arthur. u I can’t 
tell. I only reached home last night.” 

u She has flown from your house to mine. A child 
has been born. Were you her lover? Damn you ! 
yes or no ? ” 

Arthur looked round in despair. It was now pitch 
dark, and he could scarcely even see his enemy’s face. 


1 86 


Effie Hetherington . 


If he uttered the truth, he felt that there was no 
escape. 

“ I tell you I know nothing. You may kill me, if 
you like, but I can tell you no more.” 

At that moment there was the loud report of a gun, 
a babble of voices, a confused murmur, coming from 
the dark, upper portion of the river. Startled by the 
sounds, Douglas listened, and released his hold. Arthur 
Lamont seized the opportunity, plunged into the 
darkness and fled. 

tc Stop, you coward ! ” cried Douglas. 

But, without pausing for a moment, Arthur rushed, 
bareheaded, in the direction of the sounds, which 
were increasing. Knowing every bend of the river, 
which he had fished from boyhood, he made his way 
rapidly through the darkness, and passing through a 
patch of woodland, came out on the banks of a long 
pool, where poachers, bailiffs, and keepers were wildly 
struggling together — some breast-deep in the water, 
fighting for the nets, others brandishing torches — all 
shrieking and crying like mad things. As Arthur 
emerged on the scene, the last torch was extinguished 
in the water, and the battle was continued between 
friends and foes alike. 

Panting for breath, Arthur rushed against a man 
standing on the bank, and looking on. 

cc Who ’s that ? ” he cried. cc Innes ? ” 

“ Mr. Arthur ? ” 

u Yes ; it ’s me. Give me your gun ! ” 


TLjjie Hetherington. 187 

The keeper did as he was ordered, but cried at the 
same moment — 

u For God’s sake, Mr. Arthur, don’t fire ! You ’ll 
kill some of our folk ! They ’re fighting together like 
wild beasts.” 

The shrieks and oaths continued, with sounds of 
struggling bodies and splashing water. The forms 
of the men were only dimly seen. 

Suddenly, as he strained his eyes to discern the 
objects beneath and around him, Arthur Lamont 
received a murderous blow on the skull from some 
unseen weapon. Blindness and horror fell upon him. 
Then came another awful blow, crushing and oblite- 
rating all sense. He staggered forward through the 
darkness, dropped his arms as if death-struck, and fell 
with a splash into the surging waters of the pool. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE SORROW OF EFFIE HETHERINGTON. 

(( A light look, a sparkling ee, 

Win mair frae women than honestie ! 

A tinkling laugh, a face o’ mirth, 

Win women mair than honest worth ! 

A tender whisper, a scented breath. 

Win mair than love that is deep as death.” 


Auld Elder’s Proverbs. 


ARLY the next morning Effie sat by the fire, 



J— ' holding her infant to her breast. Elspeth was 
busy about the kitchen, saying little but looking whole 
volumes of righteous condemnation ; for her spirit 
still revolted against the gentle intruder, and it was 
with difficulty that she forced her tongue to be even 
moderately civil. Still, she was just enough, accord- 
ing to her lights, not to condemn the child for its 
mother’s fault, and glancing towards it, as it lay help- 
less and feeble, drawing its life from the maternal 
fount, she ever and anon uttered low murmurs of 
commiseration. 

“ The meenister called yestreen,” she said at last, 


Effie Hetherington. 189 

pausing in her work ; “ but the laird sent him aboot 
his business.” 

She paused as if awaiting a reply, but Effie was 
silent, pressing her lips tight together, and gazing 
down with dim, tearful eyes upon the babe. 

u Ye should see the holy man,” pursued Elspeth. 
u Maybe he might say a word to strengthen ye in the 
trouble ye hae to thole. He ’s douce-spoken and kindly, 
and full o’ sound sense as weel ’s sound doctrine.” 

“ I wish to see no one,” said Effie, in a broken 
voice, u except Mr. Douglas. Has he come home ? ” 

Elspeth nodded grimly. 

u Aye. He cam’ home lang past midnight, but no’ 
to sleep, and noo he ’s awa’ on the sea-shore. Wae ’s 
me for him and his ! He ’s like a man demented since 
you cam’ here.” 

A footstep was heard in the lobby, and Douglas 
appeared at the door. He looked worn and haggard, 
like one who had outwatched the night ; his eyes deep 
set under the brooding brows, his face tortured with 
some new pain which tormented him inwardly. Start- 
ing nervously, Effie looked towards him, reading his 
features with a dread she made no effort to conceal ; 
but without looking at her he crossed over to the 
ingle and stood with his back to the fire, frowning 
sternly at Elspeth and bidding her leave the room. 
This Elspeth did, grumbling a protest underbreath. 

For some minutes Douglas stood in silence, still 
not looking at Effie, although her eyes were yet 


190 


Effie ELetherington. 


wildly fixed on his. At last he spoke, but still with 
eyes averted. 

“ Was I right, yestreen, when I guessed that 
man’s name ? ” 

He paused for an answer, but none came. 

“You need not say a word,” he continued. “I 
know that I was right, and the wonder is I did n’t 
guess it from the first. Well, I ’ve seen the man, and 
spoken with him face to face.” 

Effie uttered a cry of terror, and clutching the 
child to her bosom tried to rise to her feet, but her 
strength failed her, and she sank back moaning. 
Douglas now looked at her, and crossing to her, placed 
his hand softly on her shoulder. Their eyes met, and 
hers fell before his intent and suffering gaze, while 
she murmured hysterically — 

“ What did you say to him ? and why, oh, why did 
you go to him at all ? ” 

“To call him to an account,” answered Douglas. 
“ He answered me like the cur he is, and then ” 

“ And then,” repeated Effie, trembling like a leaf. 
“You did not harm him? Tell me the truth — do 
not terrify me — you did not harm him ? ” 

“ If harm had come to him, would you care ? ” 

“Yes! I have sworn to you already that I was 
most to blame. I — I loved him, and he is the 
father of my child.” 

“ Better no father than such a one as Arthur 
Lamont,” returned Douglas. “ Think that he is lying 
in his grave, and forget him ! ” 


Effie Hetherington, 


191 

The man’s expression was so sad and ominous, and 
coupled with words of such significance, that Effie’s 
worst fears were realised, and her first terror deepened 
into horrible certainty. 

u You have killed him ! ” she cried, shrinking away 
in terror. “ You have killed him ! ” 

u And if I had,” said Douglas, with a ghastly smile, 
w would you hate me for it, Effie Hetherington ? ” 
u Yes, I should hate you ! ” she replied. w If you 
have done him any harm, I will never forgive you — 
never ! I know you care for me — I know you have 
been good and kind — but I love Arthur, and you have 
no right to come between him and me.” 

The words came from her in a passion of sobs and 
tears, and for the time being all her shame and all 
her weakness seemed to be forgotten. There was 
even in her eyes a flash of the old scorn as she looked 
upon the man whom she still regarded, in spite of all 
his magnanimity, with a strange physical aversion. 
Douglas watched her quietly, only a faint tremor 
round the edges of his lips showing his deep emotion. 
His pity for her was so absolute that not even her 
strongly expressed repulsion could change it now. 

w Effie,” he said softly, u will you listen to me, my 
woman ? ” 

w Not if you have harmed him, not if ” 

“ When I left you last night,” interrupted Douglas, 
“ it was to find out that man and punish him for 
bringing you so great a sorrow. I found him — I spoke 


192 


EJJie Hetherington . 


1/ 


to him, as I have said — and I would have killed him, 
had not God interposed.” 

She looked at him in wonder, not comprehending 
th'e meaning of his words. At that moment Elspeth 
re-entered the kitchen, crying, u Laird, laird, will ye 
come but the hoose ? Here ’s Tam Hunter o’ Gander- 
cleugh at the door, wi’ awfu’ news frae Castle 
Lindsay ; ” and with this cry of terrible omen she 
disappeared again. With a rapid glance at Effie, who 
sat rigidly in her chair, as if turned to stone, Douglas 
strode out to the front of the house, where he found 
young Hunter, a sturdy yeoman and small farmer, 
seated on horseback, awaiting his coming. 

“ What ’s this, Hunter ? ” asked Douglas. 

u A bad business, laird, o’er at the Castle. Some 
scoundrels were poaching the river yestreen — there 
was a fight wi’ the keepers, and in the fight young 
Mr. Arthur gat his death ! ” 

Elspeth, who stood by listening, uttered a wail and 
wrung her hands, but behind her in the lobby there 
was another cry, then a sound as of a body falling to 
the ground. Turning quickly, Douglas saw and under- 
stood what had occurred. Effie Hetherington had 
placed her child down, and crept out to overhear the 
news, and the first words of the messenger had struck 
her like a blow, casting her prone and insensible just 
within the threshold. 

With a cry, Douglas ran towards her, raised her in 
his arms, and carried her back to the kitchen. Before 


Effie Hetherington. 


*93 


he could place her down she had recovered, and 
struggling from his hold, she threw herself upon her 
knees by the armchair, sobbing and praying. There, 
without a word, he left her, and returned to the 
messenger. 

M How did it happen ? ” he cried. 
w Lord knows,” was the reply, u but his skull was 
smashed in, and he fell into the muckle pool, whaur 
they dragged for him at daybreak and found his body. 
It ’s murder, they ’re saying, Mr. Douglas ; but they ’ve 
ta’en Hew Howard and twa ither, and if it can be 
proved against them, they ’ll maybe hang ! ” 

u Go ben the house,” said Douglas to Elspeth, 
u and cease your noise, for no wailing and crying can 
bring the dead to life, and there ’s one yonder who 
needs your help.” 

Trembling and muttering to herself, the old woman 
obeyed. Stern and calm, Douglas leant back against 
the door, and lighting his pipe, talked on as coolly as 
one discussing the weather. 

u A gruesome home-coming for the bride ! ” he 
observed, watching the smoke curl upward from his 
lips. “ There ’ll be wailing and gnashing of teeth 
over yonder this night and many a night to come. 
I ’m sorry for Lady Bell ! ” 

u She ’s jest distractit they ’re saying, and raving like 
a mad woman. Poor leddy ! left a widow sae young, 
and mourning for a bridegroom cut off in the flower 
o’ his days.” 


13 


*94 


EJfie Hetherington. 


w Better men than he have died as young,” answered 
Douglas. “ How can they make it murder against 
those poor devils ? They were fighting in self- 
defence.” 

u Self-defence or no self-defence, I hope they ’ll 
hang them every one. The scoondrels ! To kill 
an innocent gentleman, who was jest protecting his 
ain ! But I maun be off, for I ’ve a lang road before 
me. Good-day to ye, laird ! ” 

“ Good-day, Hunter,” answered Douglas, as the 
other trotted away. 

Left alone, Douglas smoked on silently, but his 
expression of stern indifference had changed to one 
of ghastly pain. He stood with his head resting 
against the lintel of the door, and his eyes gazing 
darkly towards the distant sea. 

Meanwhile the shadow of death lay over Castle 
Lindsay. The last gentle offices had been done to 
the young man who lay cold and stiff* in death in the 
chamber where he had slept in life. All traces of his 
violent end were gently hidden, his handsome features 
were composed, and his delicate hands placed together 
on his heart. By his bedside knelt Lady Bell, sobbing 
in an agony of grief. 

The old Earl came and went on tiptoe, too near 
himself to the great secret to sorrow much, while the 
housekeeper, long familiar with death, calmly ordered 


Effie Hetherington. 


I 95 


everything and became supreme mistress of the 
situation. Again and again she had tried to comfort 
Lady Bell, but the only answer she had received was : 
u Leave me, leave me ! Don’t speak to me ! I wish 
to be alone with him ! ” 

“ Best let her bide,” said the old lady. “ God in 
His mercy sends such tears to keep the stricken heart 
from breaking ! Aye, let her greet her fill ! ” 

The Earl, a stern man and a just, did not in his 
hour of tribulation forget the righteous thought of 
vengeance. He it was who interviewed both lawyers 
and police, and set them on the track of the men 
whom he believed guilty of the awful deed. Suspicion 
pointed clearly to Hew Howard, who was seized in 
his own forge, handcuffed, and carted off to Dumfries. 
Two of his companions shared the same fate. All 
three loudly protested their innocence. 

And not one man among them all, neither the 
poachers themselves, nor the keepers by whom they 
were denounced, suspected that Richard Douglas had 
been in the woods of Castle Lindsay at the very hour 
when Arthur Lamorit was done to death. 

3fc * * * * 

As Douglas stood moodily at the door, he heard 
the fluttering of a dress and the sound of a footstep 
behind him, and the next moment Effie Hetherington, 
a cloak thrown hastily over her shoulders, slipped past 
him and ran rather than walked from the house. For 


196 


Effie Hetherington. 


an instant he stood stupefied, then, dashing his pipe 
down, he followed her. The sound of his footsteps 
behind her made her fly the faster, but he soon over- 
took her and blocked her way. 

“ Let me pass ! ” she cried, with wild eyes fixed 
on his. 

u Where are you going ? ” he asked gently, holding 
out his arms to support her, while she tottered as if 
about to fall ; but at the mere movement she shrank 
away in horror, and uttered a feeble cry for help. 

w Effie, Effie ! ” he cried, still in the same gentle 
voice. “ Are you mad ? Come back to the house ! ” 
u No ! I am going yonder — to Castle Lindsay — 
to Arthur. I wish to know the truth — to satisfy 
myself that he is dead ! ” 

“You shall not! You must not! Think of 
yourself ! think of your child ! ” 

u I hate myself ! I hate the child ! ” she cried 
wildly. w I hate you for giving me shelter here. 
You — you killed him! murdered him! Yes, you 
are a murderer, a murderer, and I will tell all the 
world what you have done ! ” 

u Effie, my woman, remember ” 

w I remember everything ! Did you think I could 
forget ? I always loved him and hated you . From the 
first moment we met I disliked and feared you, and 
now I know that I was right. I sicken at the sight 
of you, as I sickened when you spoke to me of love. 
You are loathsome to me, horrible, like a reptile. If 


Effie Hetherington. 


197 


you touch me, if you speak kindly to me, you will 
kill me — yes, you will kill me , as you killed my 
Arthur ! ” 

She spoke like a mad woman, desperate with pain 
and dread. The words might have passed, but there 
was no mistaking the looks, the tones — all the old 
repulsion was there, magnified by passionate despair. 
He listened quietly, but his heart bled as if with stabs 
from a knife. 

w Did you love him so much ? ” he said sadly, as 
she ceased her hysterical tirade. “Well, then, I’m 
sorry he is dead. I ’d give my own life now to bring 
him back.” 

“You will give your own life? Yes, it will be 
given — since you have murdered him, you shall atone. 
I myself will tell them that you were there last night 
— that you went to murder him, because you hated 
him for loving me ! ” 

“ You will tell them that ? ” 

“ Yes ! ” she cried. 

“ Even if I had done it for your sake ? ” he asked, 
watching her with wistful eyes. “ Well, do so, Effie ; 
I shall not say a word ! ” 

His quiet suffering mastered her more surely than 
anger could have done ; it reproached and humiliated 
her like a look from the Cross. 

“Forgive me, forgive me ! ” she sobbed, stretching 
out her hands in wild entreaty. “ I ’m wicked and 
ungrateful ; I know you ’ve been my only friend ; I 


198 


Effie Hetherington. 


loathe myself for speaking as I have done, but I loved 
him so, I loved him so ! ” 

Shaken by her mad mingling of many emotions like 
a reed in the wind, she fell to her knees on the Moss. 
Douglas stooped and lifted her. He felt her shudder 
at his touch, but she was too weak and spent to walk 
alone, and he led her tenderly back to the house. 


CHAPTER VII. 


LADY BELL. 

“ Wae’s me for my love that ’s dead, 

And wae ’s me weeping here — 

They snatch the white wreath from the head 
Of him I lo’ed so dear!” 

Border Ballad. 

N EXT morning Hew Howard and his two com- 
panions were brought up before the magistrates 
at Dumfries, and formally charged with having, in the 
company of other persons yet unknown, compassed 
the death of Arthur Lamont. The old Earl, stern, 
grey, and silent, was accommodated with a seat upon 
the bench, and it was remarked that he several times 
held communication by short notes with the prose- 
cuting solicitor. The prisoners were undefended, and 
all maintained a sullen silence. Hew Howard, when 
asked his name, calmly replied, u Ye should ken it 
weel. It ’s no’ the first time I ’ve stood here.” He 
looked at his lordship as he spoke with a curious 
expression, a sort of satisfied smile. The meaning 
of the words and look was plain enough to the mind 


200 


Effie Hetherington. 


of everybody there present. On the last occasion on 
which Hew had made his appearance in the Dumfries 
dock it had been to answer a charge of poaching. 
The offence had been committed in Lamont’s waters, 
and the murdered man had personally sentenced the 
prisoner to a year’s imprisonment. During Hew’s 
incarceration, matters had gone ill with his family, 
consisting of a bed-ridden wife and four young 
children. The wife had died of the effects of her 
privations within a few hours of her husband’s release 
from durance. These things were in the minds of 
everybody in the court-house, and the ruffian’s calm 
effrontery in thus recalling a mass of presumptive 
evidence certain to tell so heavily against him caused 
a groan and shudder to run through the packed 
auditory which had assembled to hear the examination. 
The old Earl’s blanched face took a deeper pallor. 
Hew remained during the rest of the proceedings with 
that curious, satisfied smile upon his face, and it still 
lingered as he left the dock with his companions. 

u It ’s just a hangin’ job for the crowd o’ them, my 
lord,” said the presiding magistrate to the Earl. 
u Yon villain did the deed, as sure as we sit here.” 

Seven more of the gang were arrested that day. 
One of their number, in the hope of being admitted 
as Queen’s evidence, had peached upon his comrades. 
It seemed likely that Arthur Lamont’s untimely death 
would be terribly avenged. On the third day after 
the murder the whole of the party, sixteen in number, 


Ejfie Hetherington . 


201 


were in custody, and were committed to take their 
trial at the now fast approaching Sessions on the 
capital charge. 

The day of Arthur’s funeral came. Douglas, by 
some strange phase of feelings which he himself could 
not have analysed, felt himself irresistibly drawn to 
witness the ceremony. 

“ Does she ken,” asked old Elspeth — she never 
spoke Effie’s name if she could avoid it — “does she 
ken what happens the day ? ” 

“Not from me,” answered Douglas. 

“ He was sib o’ hers,” said Elspeth. “ Will ye 
no’ tell her ? ” 

“ Let things bide, woman,” said Douglas. “ What 
good would it do for her to know it ? ” 

“Ye ’ll be ganging there yourseP ? ” said the old 
woman, glancing at the black frock-coat he wore. 

He made no answer, except to turn to the window 
and take up the well-thumbed volume of Boccaccio 
as a signal to the old servant to leave the room. He 
sat staring at the book, turning leaf after leaf with no 
comprehension of what he read, when Effie entered. 

She stopped short at the sight of him, with a 
quick catch of her breath. She too had noticed 
his unfamiliar costume, and had at once divined its 
meaning. She burst into tears and ran from the 
room. 

The unwonted circumstances attending Arthur 
Lamont’s death, his high position, his recent marriage, 


202 


Effie Hetherington. 


the violence of his end, naturally inflamed public 
curiosity to its utmost pitch, and an enormous con- 
course assembled in the churchyard to witness the 
funeral. Lindsay Castle and the surrounding hostelries 
had been taxed to their utmost to accommodate the 
mourners of gentle blood who followed him to his last 
resting-place. He had not, in his lifetime, been much 
of a favourite with the tenantry, for his manner with 
his social inferiors had been apt to be abrupt and over- 
bearing, and his excessive sternness to poachers had 
made him unpopular with a sport-loving population. 
But death, especially when it comes in so terrible a 
fashion, wipes out all scores, and there was only one 
feeling among the vast crowd which witnessed the 
lowering of his body to the earth — pity for the young 
life thus cut off in its flower, for the lonely lady who 
sat in solitary grief in Lindsay Castle, and for the old 
lord, too proud to show the least conscious trace of 
the emotion he needs must have felt, who stood beside 
his young kinsman’s grave erect and stern, facing the 
waves of grief like a weather-worn rock. 

What words can be found to express the emotions 
which filled the heart of Douglas as he stood, solitary 
and unmarked, amid the crowd ? He had hated the 
man who lay cold and lifeless within a few feet of him, 
hated him with a passionate intensity which had nearly 
ended in the crime with which Effie had charged him, 
and of which she still believed him guilty. He hated 
Arthur still for the wrong he had done to the woman 


Effie Hetherington. 


203 


he loved. There were moments when his detestation 
of the dead man stirred him to a futile anger against 
Fate, which had torn his vengeance from his hands, 
though, in milder moods, he had thanked God for 
being saved, even by such awful means, from that last 
extremity. His love for Effie had stirred every depth 
in his nature — a nature made up of depths and heights; 
and little as he had of the habit of introspection, he 
often stood amazed at the unsuspected capacities of 
passion it had disclosed in him. No other wrong the 
dead man could have done him, no conceivable cruelty 
or injustice to himself personally, would have survived 
in his mind the death of the offender. Death would 
have paid all accounts but that. But now, as he stood 
beside Arthur Lamont’s open grave, listening to the 
tender and majestic words of the burial service, the 
sight of Effie’s face, the sound of the low cry she had 
uttered in running from his presence that morning, 
the memory of all the grief and shame, the mere 
physical agony she had suffered by the act of the dead 
man, made his blood boil with a passion of impotent 
rage. He would have recalled Lamont to life for the 
satisfaction of feeling his throat in his grip again. 
He heard the dead man’s tones and saw his face, and 
loathed the memory of his easy insolence and half- 
feminine prettiness as deeply as ever. Like Amyas 
Leigh, when he threw his sword into the sea, he 
cursed God that he was bereft of his just due of 
vengeance. Like Amyas, too, and many another 


204 


Ejfie Hetherington. 


man, he was to learn that God had been kinder to 
him than he had thought. 

He strode away across the barren Moss towards the 
desolate house which held his treasure and his torment. 
He was within a few hundred yards of his door when 
he heard the quick pit-a-pat of a horse’s hoof behind 
him. He took no heed of it, but pursued his way till 
he heard his name called, and, turning, saw the rider 
reining in his horse within a couple of paces of him. 
He was a liveried groom, and Douglas recognised him 
at once as one of the Earl’s servants. 

“ You ’ll excuse me,” said the man, “ but I ’ve a 
note for ye, Mr. Douglas.” 

“ A note ! For me ? Who is it from ? ” 

“ I ’m thinkin’ ’t will be frae my lady ; but ye ’ll 
ken when ye open it. ’T was Maggie Mitchell that 
gave it me.” 

He delivered the letter, and sat silent in the saddle 
while Douglas opened it. It was very short, and ran 
simply as follows — 

“ Dear Mr. Douglas, — I want to see you. Will 
you come to the Castle at your earliest convenience ? 
Your friend in deep sorrow, Bell Lamont.” 

Douglas stood pondering with the note in his hand. 
He could conceive no reason why Lady Lamont 
should desire to see him. 

“ Good,” he said, nodding to the groom, as he 


Effie Hetherington. 


2°5 


turned in the direction of the Castle. “ Give my 
compliments to your lady, and say I ’m on my way 
to her.” 

“ Ye might tak’ the horse, if ye will, laird,” said 
the groom. “ It ’s a lang step to the Castle, and 
Maggie said ’t was pressing.” 

He dismounted, and Douglas, with a brief word of 
thanks, climbed to the saddle. What could be the 
meaning of this mysterious summons, and what could 
Lady Bell want with him ? They had not met half 
a dozen times in their whole lives, and had had no 
dealings together of any kind before or since that 
stormy night of Halloween, when she and Effie and 
Arthur Lamont had come for shelter to Douglas. 
The truth, or something like it, flashed into his mind 
suddenly as he trotted towards the Castle. The news 
of E ffie’s shame was quite public property, and would 
certainly have reached her kinswoman’s ears by this 
time. Had she learned the parentage of the child ? 
Even the constant pity and rage which filled his heart 
were for a moment diverted at that idea. Who could 
have had the stupid cruelty to tell the widowed bride 
such a secret at such a time ? 

***** 

Since her husband’s death Lady Bell had remained 
for the most part in a condition which varied between 
raving hysteria and utter prostration. There had been 
grave fears for her reason, and a neighbouring doctor 


206 


Effie Hetherington . 


had been called in to reside at the Castle during the 
period of danger. The wilder fits of grief had natu- 
rally worn themselves out and become less frequent, 
and she had fallen into a brooding quiet, a dull, dead 
lethargy terrible to see. Day and night she sat beside 
her husband’s open coffin, not leaving it even for those 
brief intervals of sleep, save for whose beneficent 
effect the worst fears of those who surrounded her 
would certainly have been realised. When the last 
dread hour of parting came, she watched the hearse 
which contained the coffin and the long train of 
mourning carriages out of sight of her window in a 
strange calm. She seemed to have no more tears to 
shed. Maggie Mitchell, who was her companion at 
the moment, and who had cried bitterly as the funeral 
cortege left the house, was almost as much frightened 
at her quiet as she had been by the wilder expressions 
of her grief. 

“ It ’s no’ canny,” said Maggie to herself, as she 
watched her mistress’s face, which had settled to the 
dead, set expression of a carven stone mask. u It ’s 
no’ canny to see her look like that. I ’d rather she ’d 
hae her heesterics again.” 

cc I can’t breathe here,” said Lady Bell, laying her 
hand upon her breast. They were the first words she 
had addressed to any one for some days. Maggie sat 
fascinated with fear, watching her. “ I shall go down- 
stairs, Maggie,” she continued, in a voice hoarse with 
long weeping, but quite collected. u No. Don’t 


Fjjie Hetherington. 207 

come with me. I can ring if I want you, and I want 
to be alone.” 

She passed down the wide staircase and into the 
hall. All but the lower regions of the house were 
empty, and she wandered at her will from room to 
room, finding some little ease in physical motion after 
her long watching in the chamber of death. Every- 
thing she looked at had some memory of Arthur, and 
her tears began to flow again. She came at last to 
the room which had been set apart for his special 
occupation, a fair-sized apartment on the ground floor, 
overlooking the stable-yard. His papers and letters 
were still scattered about the desk which stood beneath 
the open window ; his guns and whips and fishing-rods 
were in order on their nails and racks upon the walls ; 
the whole place seemed so full of him that as she 
entered she half-expected the familiar figure to turn 
towards her in the seat at the desk with the familiar 
bright smile. She fell into it herself, weeping bitterly ; 
and an old collie dog, Arthur’s favourite, who had 
followed her into the room, laid his grizzled head upon 
her knees and looked up into her face with a pitiful 
whimper of inquiry. 

w He ’s gone, Dandie ! He ’s gone ! ” she sobbed, 
embracing the dog’s head with her hands. The dog 
whimpered anew, and she bent and kissed him, leaving 
her hot tears upon his shaggy face. 

She sat there with the dog at her knees, weeping 
silently, for some time. The crisis of her grief had 


208 


Effie Hetherington . 


passed, her tears were tender and healing. The whole 
atmosphere was redolent of her lost husband. Suddenly 
voices broke upon her ear from the stable-yard. She 
recognised them instinctively, though with no interest 
at first in what they said, as those of a stable-helper 
and a lass from one of the Earl’s farms, who often 
came to the Castle with milk and eggs, and other 
country produce. They were quite near at hand, so 
near that but for the intervening wall she could almost 
have touched the speakers ; and at a word, that went 
as it were by chance from ear to brain, she was stung 
to attention to their talk. 

“ Ay ! ” said the male voice, “ he was a braw gentle- 
man and a bonny, and sae mony a lassie thocht, 
forby my Lady Bell, puir woman. He was a deil 
amang the womenfolk.” 

“ Lady Bell ’s nigh daft wi’ his loss,” said the girl. 
u Maggie Mitchell says it ’s just awfu’ to be with her. 
She does naething but greet and cry oot frae morn to 
necht.” 

“ Ay ! It ’s natural, puir thing. She ’s what ye 
may ca’ the ofFeecial widow. There ’s others that 
maybe hae mair cause to greet than Lady Bell.” 

“ And wha are they ? ” asked the girl. She lived at 
a remote farm, and was naturally less well informed 
regarding current news and scandal than her interlo- 
cutor, who lived near the Castle, the capital, so to 
speak, of the country-side. 

“ Aweel, there ’s Miss Effie Hetherington, Bonnie 


Effie Hetherington. 209 

Effie, as they call her, and faith, they tell nae lee in 
ca’ing her bonnie, and she ’s ” 

ct Eh, man, I ken a’ aboot that affair,” said the girl, 
“ but it ’s nae sae sure as ye seem to think that the 
bairn is Mr. Arthur’s.” 

“ And whose suld it be ? ” asked the man. 

“ There ’s folk that think Mr. Douglas micht tell 
us, gin he would.” 

“Hoots!” said the man. “Douglas! Ye’re 
haverin’, woman. The bairn ’s nae mair Douglas’s 
then it ’s mine. What would a bonnie lass like Miss 
Hetherington be doing wi’ a sour chiel like Douglas, 
wi’ a face like a corner o’ the Dumfries tolbooth ? ” 

“ But ’t is at his house she ’s lyin’, and the bairn 
was born there.” 

“ Then it was born where it was no begotten,” said 
the fellow, with a hoarse laugh at his own wit, “ and 
that ’s no sae uncommon as ye seem to think. It ’s no 
a year ago that I was ganging home one night in the 
gloamin’ that I saw them thegither — Mr. Arthur and 
Miss Hetherington — in the summer hoose ayant there 
by the waterfall, she sittin’ on his knee, and he kissin’ 
her. Ask your sense, woman, if a lass like her wadna 
rather be kissed by a bonny gentleman like that than 
by a half-daft auld carl like Richard Douglas.” 

A voice called the fellow to the other side of the 
stable-yard. He answered the cry and obeyed it. 

Lady Bell sat for a moment like one stricken to 
stone. Her tears had ceased as suddenly as if the 

14 


210 


TLjfie Hetherington. 


blaze of anger in her eyes had been veritable fire to 
scorch them up. 

u Incredible ! Infamous ! ” she gasped. u Arthur ! 
Arthur ! ” she cried, as wildly as if her dead husband 
had stood before her to answer the monstrous charge. 

M It is n’t true ! And yet ! ” A thousand little 

things — unremembered till now, almost unmarked at 
the time, rushed upon her mind to confirm the accusa- 
tion — glances and words, trifles light as air, but of 
deadly import to her new-born jealousy. “ I can’t bear 
it ! I shall go mad ! I must know ! I must have 
proof! But how? See that wretch, and tear the 
truth from her. Ah ! Douglas ! He will know.” 

She turned to the desk, and hastily scrawled the 
note we have already seen delivered to the laird. The 
funeral party were entering the avenue on their return 
from the burial-ground when the groom who carried 
it rode from the gates. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE TWO WOMEN, 


“ And wha shall hae this deid man’s blessing, 
His licht-o’-love or me, 

Since baith hae smiled neath his caressing 
And sat upon his knee ? 

And wha shall sit at this deid man’s side 
When life has past away, 

The licht-o’-love or the waeful bride. 

Upon God’s Judgment Day ? ” 


The Tale of Twa, 



HEN that possible solution of Lady Bell’s 


summons to Castle Lindsay broke on 


Douglas’s mind, he half mechanically reined in the 
horse he was riding, and reduced his quick trot to a 
walk. If by any channel the unfortunate woman 
had received an inkling of the truth, the interview 
between himself and her could hardly fail to be 
extremely comfortless to both parties concerned, and 
must also be worse than useless to Effie, now, as always, 
the chief interest in the thoughts of Douglas. His 
mind shot this way and that amid the tangled mazes 


212 


Effie Hetherington. 


of thought and emotion, and fixed at last upon one 
definite idea. If his suspicion of the object of Lady 
Bell’s invitation were true, and it was to learn of him 
the guilt or innocence of her dead husband that she 
had asked for the interview — suppose he lied, plump 
and plain, denied Arthur’s paternity, and claimed 
Effie’s child as his own ? Douglas was naturally as 
little of a sophist as any man alive that day, but no 
Jesuit could have been quicker to see certain proximate 
advantages which might spring from that pious fraud. 
It would save the dead man’s reputation. That was 
nothing, and much less than nothing, to Douglas, but 
it was much to Arthur’s Lamont’s kith and kin. It 
would spare Lady Bell a second blow as bitter — 
bitterer, perhaps, Douglas thought, than that first 
blow of her husband’s death. These were after- 
thoughts, the main idea in Douglas’s mind — a thought 
that filled him with a wild whirl of emotion — was that 
for him to claim the child, and take the dead man’s 
burden on his shoulders, would force Effie to capitulate 
and marry him. His face flushed and paled, his heart 
beat like a sledge-hammer, his whole body trembled 
at the thought. That she did not love him, that such 
gratitude for his generosity, such admiration of his 
higher qualities generally as her shallow nature was 
capable of feeling, were powerless to overcome the 
physical repugnance she had conceived for him, 
mattered nothing. As he had told her, it was not 
the ordinary privileges of husbandhood he desired or 


Effie Hetherington. 


213 


would ever claim. To shelter her from slanderous 
tongues, to protect her from all the world, to nurse 
her back from the gulf of sickness and suppression to 
the free air and sunlight of her sparkling youth — that 
was reward enough, and more than enough, for him. 
Love might come in time. It must and should. He 
would guard her so tenderly, watch over her with 
such utter generosity of affection, that she must end 
by loving him. That consensus of inherited prejudice 
and every-day practice which we call conscience, sense 
of honour, et cetera, put in a feeble plea. The means 
by which he proposed to gain that happy end were 
tainted. He must tell one lie straight, and live 
another for years to come. At the thought Douglas 
broke into a loud, discordant laugh — a laugh so wild 
and sudden that it startled the groom, whose swift 
stride had brought him almost even again with the 
lagging paces of the horse. A lie, forsooth ! He 
would have lied till his soul was as black as Arthur 
Lamont’s, he would have waded through blood to 
such a consummation. jHe dashed his heels into the 
horse’s side, and rode to the Castle at full speed. 

As he passed through the hall of the Castle in the 
track of the servant who led him to Lady Bell’s 
boudoir, the clinking of plates and glasses and a 
subdued hum of conversation reached his ears from 
the great dining-room on the right, where the friends 
and relatives of the house sat at the funeral dinner. 
He could not but remember what a different kind of 


214 


Effie Hetherington. 


feasting had gone on in the house when last he had 
crossed its threshold. The wide staircase, which had 
blazed with light and cheer, was swathed in black, 
the room to which the silent attendant led him had 
its windows darkened, and was lit only by the flame 
of the big wood fire upon the ample hearth. 

u My leddy shall know ye ’re here, sir,” said the 
servant. 

Douglas nodded, and, as the man left the room, 
stood absently trifling with some object on the mantel- 
piece. He was still so occupied when Lady Bell 
entered the room. She gave him a cold hand, which 
not even the resolution to which she had strung her- 
self could quite keep from trembling. 

“ You are well, I hope, Mr. Douglas ? ” 
u I thank your ladyship.” 

“ Won’t you be seated ? ” 

He gave her a formal and rather old-fashioned bow, 
and took the seat she indicated by a wave of the 
hand. She sat also, with her face turned from the 
firelight, and further concealed by her practised 
management of a little hand-screen. The blaze shone 
full on Douglas’s rugged lineaments, in which there 
seemed to her to be no change since she had last 
beheld them. A little thinner and greyer, perhaps, a 
trifle more lined about the sad eyes and the rocklike 
forehead, but that was all. 

She felt, for she was a woman of quick touch and 
keen feeling, that with a man like Douglas, at once 


Effie Hetherington . 


21 5 


simple and astute, it would be best to go as straight 
as might be to the object of her invitation, and waste 
no time in mere diplomatic beating about the bush. 

“ Mr. Douglas,” she began, speaking quietly and 
directly, though with a noticeable tremor in her voice, 
u I have sent for you to ask a question. The answer 
is of the very greatest importance to me. I implore 
you not to hide the truth from me from any motive of 
kindness. It would be a mistake — a dreadful mistake. 
Deal honestly with me.” 

u I am at your service, madam,” said Douglas. 
He knew already that his guess was right from the 
gathering intensity of the voice and manner she so 
piteously strove to make purely commonplace. 

“ My unhappy kinswoman, Miss Effie Hethering- 
ton — she is staying at your house ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Douglas. u She is under my roof.” 
w It was there her child was born ? ” Douglas bent 
his head. u I have heard a rumour — a dreadful 
rumour.” She stopped short, and her agitation was 
so great that Douglas, even in his own deep distress, 
could not help feeling a sharp pang of pity for her. 
“ How she must have loved that blackguard ! ” was 
the thought in his mind, but he sat silent, keeping 
his eyes fixed on the blazing logs. “ They say — 
oh, Mr. Douglas, how can I speak the word ? ” 

“ Let me help you, Lady Bell,” said Douglas. 
“ They say that the child is the child of your dead 
husband, Arthur Lamont.” 


2l6 


EJfie Hetherington. 


“ You have heard it too ! ” she cried. 

“ It is a common rumour,” he continued, speaking 
drily and coldly. “ Comfort yourself, madam. It is 
not true.” 

“ Not true ! ” She sprang to her feet, and dropped 
the last thread of the too transparent pretence of calm 
she had worn. “ Oh, thank God ! Thank God for 
that ! It drove me mad ! It sickened me ! It is 
barely an hour since I heard it, and I think in another 
hour I should have lost my reason.” 

“Your husband was guiltless, Lady Bell. The 
child is mine.” 

“Yours! Then you are married?” she queried 
rapidly. 

“ No,” said Douglas, still calmly. “ We are not 
married.” 

“Not in the kirk, perhaps, but before witnesses — 
before the registrar.” 

“ There has been no ceremony of any kind.” 

“ But — but,” she stammered, seeking some phrases 
to express her amazement. 

“ I must beg you, Lady Bell,” said Douglas, “ to 
give me your confidence in return for mine. There 
are circumstances I don’t care to dwell on, which 
may keep us from marrying for some time to come.” 

Lady Bell, as may be easily conceived, was too 
overjoyed at the dissipation of her doubts of her 
husband’s faithfulness to take any great interest in 
Effie’s circumstances for the moment. She made a 


Effie Hetherington. 


21/ 


guess — a natural one under the circumstances — at the 
reasons which held Douglas from doing her cousin 
the justice of public re-instatement and legitimising 
his child. He had been a traveller for many years, 
and had returned to his desolate home a soured and 
moody man, and had been content, though of good 
blood and breeding, and in the full enjoyment of 
robust health, to live there, solitary and unfriended. 
<c He married abroad,” thought Lady Bell, tc and his 
wife is still alive.” It was a sufficiently discreditable 
business for the houses of Lindsay and Hetherington 
as things stood, but at least Arthur was blameless. 
He was back on his pedestal in her heart, she could 
pour out on his memory all the worship and devotion 
which, but for his tragic and untimely death, would 
have been his meed in the flesh. The moment 
Douglas had left her she sank upon her knees in 
an ecstasy of thanks to God. For the time the 
grief of widowhood itself was wiped from her heart. 
It is one of the tritest commonplaces of cynicism 
that the most efficacious way to retain the affections 
of a wife is to die soon after marriage, but there is a 
measure of quite uncynical and pathetic truth in it. 
Arthur’s death had cast a halo about him in his wife’s 
heart. He had hidden his vices and flaws of character 
from her with wonderful success during their brief 
period of married life, and her love and grief so 
magnified the surface virtues he had possessed that he 
shone in her mind with the radiance of an angel. 


2l8 


Effie Hetherington. 


She remembered him as the handsomest, bravest, 
tenderest, most perfect of created beings. If anything 
could have added to her idolatry of him, it was the 
foul accusation she had harboured against him, now 
dispelled by the assurances of Douglas. She spent an 
hour or two of sweet adoration and bitter-sweet self- 
humiliation before Arthur’s portrait, worshipping it, 
begging its pardon for the doubt she had dared to feel, 
abasing herself before it as her pride would never have 
permitted herself to do before the living original. 

There had never been any love lost between herself 
and Effie ; but, after all, blood goes for something, 
and years of close companionship for even more. 
The child was of her kin, and was in bitter trouble. 
She would go and see her, and speak what word of 
comfort she might. She quietly ordered a pony 
chaise to be in readiness at a little postern of the 
Castle, with which her boudoir easily communicated ; 
and just after nightfall slipped, cloaked and hooded, 
from the house, and was driven to Douglas. 

* * * * * 

Douglas, meanwhile, strode back across the Moss 
homewards, in a changing mood which varied between 
exultation and despair. At one moment the success 
of his scheme looked certain, and at another doubtful, 
and his blood ran hot and cold with hope and fear. 
He foresaw, in any case, a scene of strong emotion 
with Effie, and braced himself to meet it. The 


Effie Hetherington . 


219 


rudely furnished sitting-room was empty when he 
entered it, and he learned from old Elspeth that Effie 
was asleep. He had meant to tell her of his action at 
once, but the momentary reprieve was rather welcome 
than otherwise, though very soon the time began to 
drag terribly. He lit his pipe, and sat staring at the 
dim light of the peats on the hearth, or marching with 
ponderous yet silent tread to and fro along the length 
of the room. The dusk had deepened into night 
before his solitude was broken by Effie’s entrance. 
She looked at him with a furtive fear in her large 
eyes, a look Douglas had grown accustomed to of 
late. 

w Sit down, Effie, my woman, I ’ve something to 
tell you.” An extra depth in his deep voice warned 
the girl that the communication would be no ordinary 
one. “ I saw Lady Bell this afternoon.” He paused 
there again, and Effie, nervously watching her lingers 
as they twisted in her lap, waited for him to proceed. 
“ She sent for me to go to her. Can you guess the 
reason why ? ” 

u No,” said Effie, faintly. “ What was it ? ” 

“ She had heard” said Douglas, with a stress upon 
the word. 

Effie’s breast began to heave, and her cheek flushed 
with shame and anger. 

“ I suppose it ’s cried on the housetops all over the 
country,” she said. “ Well ? And what had my 
kind cousin to say to you ? ” 


220 


Effie Hetherington . 


cc She wanted to know,” continued Douglas, u if it 
was true that her husband was the father of your bairn. 
I told her ‘ No/ ” 

Effie started, raised her head, and for the first time 
looked directly at him, with a flushed face and wide 
eyes. 

“ I told her,” Douglas went on, “ that the child 
was mine.” 

Effie cowered for a moment in her seat, her face 
hidden in her hands, then sprang to her feet con- 
fronting him. 

u For God’s sake,” he said quickly, “ hear me out ! 
I spoke the lie for your sake, Effie, for yours and hers. 
Oh, Effie, woman, think of it ! How could I tell the 
poor lady the truth ? Has n’t she suffered enough ? 
And see, Effie — see how it will save you, and set 
matters right. I ’ve given your bairn a father, and 
you a home and a protector. Marry me, Effie, my 
lass, marry me, and your fair fame is saved.” 

She shrank away from him, and he advanced, plead- 
ing passionately for a fuller hearing. 

“ Don’t think it was to serve my own ends 
that I said it. I swear before God it was for your 
sake, and for your sake only. I ’ll never ask a 
husband’s privilege, never touch your hand or the 
hem of your dress. I ’ll be your servant, your slave, 
your dog.” 

In the passion of his emotion he caught her hand. 
She tore it from his grasp, shuddering as though she 


Effie Hetherington. 


221 


had unawares touched some noxious thing. The 
physical repulsion he exercised over her seemed to 
have grown a habit of her blood, unconquerable. 

M Ah ! ” she cried. “ Don’t touch me ! Not 
another word ! ” she said, as he again opened his lips 
to speak. w I leave this house to-night. I ’d rather 
go out and die on the Moss than stay here with you. 
I ’d rather be pointed at by every finger in Scotland 
as Arthur Lamont’s mistress than be your wife.” 

A long, shuddering sob from the semi-darkness near 
the door stopped the torrent of their speech. Deathly 
pale, Lady Bell glided like a wraith into the circle 
of light cast by the lamp. Effie stared at the ap- 
parition with a stricken face, and a deep groan burst 
from Douglas. 

cc So ! ” cried Lady Bell, fronting the trembling girl 
with blazing eyes. M At last I know the truth. I 
knew your ambition, Effie Hetherington, though I 
seemed blind to it. I did not know till now that you 
had succeeded in it. The mistress of Arthur Lamont, 
the mother of his bastard child. Accept my com- 
pliments.” She swept a curtsey. u You, you intri- 
guing little liar. You, a pauper I saved from the 
gutter ! ” Her rage strangled her. She stammered 
for words, and so gave Douglas an opportunity of 
checking the flood of insult. 

“ Why did you lie to me ? ” she answered to his 
first quietly spoken words. w Why did you expose me 
to the humiliation of this visit, of her presence ? ” 


222 


Effie Hetherington. 


“ For God’s sake, madam,” said Douglas, “ leave us. 
You can do no good by staying. I would have kept 
you from the knowledge of the truth if I could. You 
know it now. Go, I implore you. Ah ! ” 

He gave a scream, shrill as a woman’s, as Effie, 
overpowered by Lady Bell’s appearance and her own 
contending passions, fell to the floor. 

“You’ve killed her!” he cried. “ Elspeth ! 
Elspeth ! Ye auld devil, come here ! ” 

The old woman ran into the room and bent above 
the body. 

“ She ’s in a swound. Bear a hand, laird, and we ’ll 
get her till her bed.” 

Douglas bore the lifeless body from the room, and 
when, a minute later, he returned, Lady Bell had 
gone. 


CHAPTER IX. 


u PARTING IS SUCH SWEET SORROW.” 
“Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ! ” — Old Saying. 

T HERE are degrees and gradations, everywhere 
and in everything, even in despair itself. 
Douglas had made his great throw for happiness, 
and had lost. A brief light had dawned upon the 
dismal prospect of his life, only to be quenched ; he 
had beheld a resting-place of green trees and placid 
waters, only to find it a mirage amid the flat and in- 
terminable sands of existence. He was as a man under 
sentence of death to whom a respite comes, only to be 
succeeded by the ratification of the original doom. 
Take what illustration of despairing misery you will, 
it can hardly transcend his condition after the scene 
just revealed. 

Elspeth returned presently to the sitting-room, to 
find her master bent above the fire, looking, in the 
dim light of the lamp, more haggard and forlorn than 
she had ever before seen him. He gave no sign or 
knowledge of her presence. 


224 


Effie Hetherington . 


“ For God’s sake, laird,” said the old woman, 
“ what has happened ? The puir lass was in a dead 
swound, and when she cam’ to she was like one 
possessed, that ye read of in the Scripture. She ’s 
quieter now, but she ’s had a sair shock, and I doot 
there ’s mair trouble in store for her, for she ’s just 
clean demented. She goes on talkin’ till herseP, 
saying over and over again, 1 That ’s why he killed 
him. That ’s why he killed him.’ ” 

Douglas turned his face on her, a face of stark, 
dumb agony, and seemed about to speak, but turned 
again silently and stared at the fire with bright un- 
winking eyes. 

“ Ye ’ll hae trouble wi’ her, I ’m thinking, gin ye 
mean to haud her i’ the house, for she says she ’ll no’ 
bide here. She ’d be fine and welcome to gang for 
me. It was an ill wind that blew her here, I ’m 
thinking.” 

Elspeth was not a woman of much penetration, 
but she would have been stupid indeed if, with such 
events happening under her eyes, she had failed to 
read at least the main lines of the drama in which 
she was a subordinate actor. Her master loved Miss 
Hetherington, who was, in Elspeth’s eyes, a mere 
wanton and wastrel, who should have been driven 
from the threshold of any honest house to the public 
shame she merited. The old woman would have 
hated and despised the girl cordially enough merely 
for disdaining the laird’s suit, and she was beginning 


Effie Hetherington. 


22 5 


to think that she had better reason than even that 
afforded for her detestation. The rumour of Arthur 
Lamont’s parentage of Effie’s child was abroad all 
over the country-side by this time, and had come to 
her ears as a matter of course. Effie’s reiterated 
exclamation, “ That ’s why he killed him,” had 
illumined Elspeth’s mind with a further flash of bale- 
ful light. The disgraced wanton dared to believe 
Richard Douglas the assassin of her paramour ! It 
was only her fear of Douglas’s gloomy and violent 
anger which held the old woman back from express- 
ing her wrath and counselling Effie’s immediate 
expulsion from the house. 

Finding her master’s silence impenetrable, Elspeth 
withdrew. It was wearing late, but Douglas sat 
on in a sort of half-waking trance. He was too 
utterly unselfish in his love to dwell long merely 
on his own sorrows. Despair had been to him as 
his normal moral atmosphere for months past, and 
he accepted his hopeless position as best he might. 
His thoughts were all of Effie, and they were full of 
infinite pity and tenderness, and even of a mournful 
admiration. How splendidly beautiful she had looked 
while repudiating his offer, and clasping to her breast 
the legacy of shame left her by the man she had loved, 
wrapping herself in it as in a mantle. A man of 
Douglas’s brains who loves a worthless woman cannot 
help at times, however deep and sincere his affection 
may be, but get a glimpse of the woman’s true nature. 
T 5 


226 


Effie Hetherington. 


Through all the unreal attributes of womanly per- 
fection with which his love had dressed her, Effie’s 
frivolity and worthlessness had more than once become 
apparent to Douglas’s eyes. But now there was no 
more doubt of her possible. A woman who could 
love as she loved, who, at all possible cost of comfort, 
consideration, all that women most dearly prize, could 
hold to her faith to the dead villain who had betrayed 
her — what words could paint her heroism, what 
thought encompass it ? She shone before the lonely, 
tortured man with tenfold radiance. She was more 
than worthy of all the worship, all the service he 
could render. The man’s sore heart was wrung with 
pity and admiration and tenderness unspeakable. 

We, who have followed Effie Hetherington’s story 
thus far, with a more intimate knowledge of its details 
than Douglas could have, know how little of the 
heroic quality her rejection of his scheme for her 
salvation had expressed. Had that strange physical 
repulsion he exercised over her been one whit less 
pronounced, she would have yielded. Any one of a 
score of men for whose characters she felt far less 
esteem than that wrung from her by Douglas might 
have succeeded in winning her consent. She was one 
of those women — not at all an uncommon type — 
whose nerves stand them instead of heart and brains 
and conscience. Women of a far higher class than 
Effie belonged to are apt to be pitiless to the men who 
persecute them with a passion they cannot return, but 


Effie Hetherington. 


22 7 


women of her type are most pitiless of all, for genuine 
passion frightens as well as bores them. Their Eros 
is a curled and scented darling with a flower in his 
buttonhole, and au fait in the last nuance of feminine 
fashion and the newest thing in the slang of the 
drawing-room. When he had descended upon poor 
Effie in the guise of Arthur Lamont, he had seemed 
a very innocent and pleasant deity indeed, quite of the 
drawing-room pattern, and with no such uncouth man- 
ners as he assumed in the person of Richard Douglas. 

The poignant emotion Effie had suffered in hearing 
Douglas unfold his scheme, and in the scene with 
Lady Bell, so prostrated her that for the next few days 
she was forced to keep her bed. Douglas forbore to 
intrude his society upon her, and awaited with what 
patience he might a summons to her society, the one 
solace his life could offer him. Old Elspeth ministered 
to her needs with a sad and unsympathetic regularity, 
never speaking an avoidable word. She was Effie’s 
only link with the outside world during this enforced 
confinement. The girl was naturally anxious to 
know in what guise her misadventure had reached the 
world, and made every indirect effort to draw Elspeth 
on to gossip, exerting her best blandishments to that 
effect. She might as well have tried to wheedle Ailsa 
Craig. The old woman was obstinately deaf to all 
hints, till Effie’s curiosity finally broke down the 
pitiful remnant of pride which was left to her, and 
forced her to directer methods. 


228 


Effie Hetherington . 


“ What are they saying about me ? ” she asked 
Elspeth one morning, point blank. “ I suppose every- 
body knows my story.” 

“ Know it ! ” echoed Elspeth. u Oh, ay ! Faith, 
they ken it weel eneuch ! ” 

u What are they saying ? ” asked Effie. 
u Hoo should I ken a’ the havers that folk talk ? ” 
asked Elspeth, crustily. 

“ Who do they say is the father of my child ? ” 
asked Effie. 

u Maist o’ them hae the sense to lay the debt 
whaur ’t is due. There ’s just a twa three gowks that 
think otherwise, or say they think sae, ’t is a’ ane 
what they think or what they say. They ’ll no say it 
twice, in my hearing.” 

w Have they found out — do they know who — ” 
she could hardly bring herself to shape the question — 
u do they know who murdered him ? ” 

u There ’s saxteen o’ them i’ the Tolbooth at Dum- 
fries, charged with it, Hew Howard and his gang, ye 
ken. Folk say there ’s a chance o’ the haill clamjam- 
fray hanging for the job, if the lawyer chiel’s can’t 
find oot which o’ them it was that did the deed. Ma 
certie, but it ’s hard measure, saxteen decent men that 
never harmed any man o’ a boddle’s worth, exceptin’ 
perhaps two three bit saumon or the like.” 

“ But are they sure these men did it ? ” 

“ Sure ? Hech, sure eneuch. Mr. Arthur gaed 
oot wi’ the keeper bodies to capture them. He ’d 


Effie Hetherington . 


229 


better ha’ bided at hame, an’ kept a haill skin. There 
was more than one amangst them that owed him a 
grudge, forbye Hew, that ’s the likeliest to ha’ dune it. 
But finish your brose. Miss Hetherington, and tak’ the 
bairn, for the laird will be wearyin’ for his dinner.” 

The arrest of the poachers was news to Effie, but it 
did not stir her from the belief which had grown fixed 
in her mind, that Douglas had done the deed to put 
Arthur out of the way, and so, leaving her utterly 
alone and friendless in the world, force her to the 
acceptance of the scheme he had sprung upon her. 

So her shame was known, and her name the common 
theme of gossip through the country. The choice 
she had so bravely made to Douglas in words was 
upon her in stern fact, she would be pointed at as the 
dead man’s light o’ love. She must get away from the 
scene of her disaster. But how ? She so utterly mis- 
read the character of the only friend she had in the 
world as to believe that he would thwart her in her 
endeavour to escape from public shame, and the idea 
of appealing for help to Douglas never for a minute 
occurred to her. She made up her mind to run away 
in the night, when the house was all asleep, as soon as 
she had gained the necessary strength to reach the 
Dumfries railway station. In leaving the Castle she 
had taken care to bring her few jewels and what 
money she was possessed of. She would go south to 
London, where nobody knew her or her story, and 
then — well, the future was not very clear. She 


2 3 0 


Effie Hetherington. 


would find employment of some sort, perhaps get upon 
the stage, a career which had always had a great 
fascination for her since she had seen her first panto- 
mime. She was far too pretty and too clever to be 
allowed to starve. But the child ? She was not a 
model mother, and the shame the child had brought 
her was far greater than the pleasure of maternity, but 
she was not so heartless that she could look on the 
small face nestled t;o her breast in the abandonment of 
sleep and think of deserting it without some pang of 
natural sorrow. Douglas seemed fond of it. He would 
tend it for her sake, and some day she might send for 
it. She matured her plan that night before she fell 
asleep, and two days later felt strong enough to put it 
into execution. She waited till the house was still, 
and rose and dressed, shivering with cold and fright 
and weakness. She softly opened the door of the 
sitting-room. The lamp was out, and by the faint 
glow of the peat fire she saw that the room was 
empty. Quietly as a ghost she slid through the 
room, along the darkened passage, and raised the rude 
latch of the heavy door. The night was fine and 
starry, and in the dead calm of the air she could hear 
the distant rolling of the sea. The free air and the 
certainty of escape strung her muscles and called the 
blood to her cheek. She started at a run, and had 
covered fifty yards or so when her arm was seized. 
She turned with a panting shriek, and faced Douglas. 

“ Effie, my woman,” he said gently, “ what ’s this ? ” 


Effie Hetherington. 231 

u Let me go ! ” she cried. w Oh, Mr. Douglas, 
let me go.” 

u Go ! ” he repeated. “ Where could you go to, 
poor bairn ? ” 

u Anywhere ! ” she panted. “ Anywhere away 
from here. I can’t stay ! I shall go mad ! Every- 
body knows. Everybody is talking of me, and point- 
ing at me. Let me go away, somewhere where people 
don’t know me, and I can live in peace. What right 
have you to stay me ? ” she cried, pleading giving 
way to anger, fed by the horror of his touch, for he 
still held her arm. “ I will go ! ” 

cc Not now, or like this,” he answered. 

“ Then kill me ! ” she said. “ Kill me, as you 
killed him ! ” 

She broke into sudden wild weeping, and but for 
his support would have fallen to the ground. Douglas 
put his arm about her, and drew her unresisting back 
to the house. 


CHAPTER X. 


VALE ! 


“ Since there’s no hope, come, let us kiss and part — 
Nay, I have done, you get no more from me.” 

Michael Drayton. 

N the night of Effie’s attempted flight Douglas 



took another, and, as he fondly hoped, the last, 
step towards the ultimate bourn of despair. Her 
action had brought him face to face with a necessity 
which he had not yet contemplated, but which he now 
saw to be inevitable — a parting, perhaps a final and 
complete parting, between Eflie and himself. It was 
impossible that she should remain in the district 
where her life was known to everybody and the story 
of her shame was common property. In the delirious 
and unreasoning joy he had felt in harbouring her 
beneath his roof, in breathing the same air with her, 
he had never thought of this, not even her rejection of 
his heroic falsehood to Lady Bell had brought it home 
to him. She must go. Of that there could be no 
doubt. He sat long into the night, contemplating the 
hideous barrenness and desolation of the life that 


Effie Hetherington. 


2 33 


awaited him when she would be far away. That too 
he was prepared to bear with the rest of his burden, 
for her sake, but it would be bitter — bitterer than 
all that had gone before. 

He found no rest that night, which he spent in 
walking aimlessly about the Moss, at first in a mere 
hopeless abandonment of his whole nature to a barren, 
sterile grief for which he could find no outlet, and 
later in arranging a plan for Effie’s departure. The 
need for action was urgent, and since there was no 
escape he forced himself to face the inevitable as 
calmly as he might. 

“ Ask Miss Hetherington to grant me the favour of 
a few words,” he said to Elspeth that morning after 
breakfast. A few minutes later Effie entered the 
room. 

“ You wanted to see me ? ” she asked. 

w Yes,” said Douglas. u I have been thinking over 
what happened last night. You are right. This is 
no place for you to remain in. You must go.” 

Effie clasped her hands, and looked at him with a 
glance of ardent gratitude. It was the first pleasurable 
expression any word of his had called to her face for 
months past, and it hurt him as no expression of 
hatred or repulsion could have done. But he had 
learned his lesson, and went on quietly, with no sign 
of the effort the words cost him to speak. 

cc You must go, and I have been thinking how best 
to arrange for your going. There is a cousin of 


2 34 


Effie Hetherington. 


mine, Mary Campbell, the widow of a merchant in 
Aberdeen, and, from all I hear, she is very well to do. 
I did her a good turn years ago — never mind what — 
something she has not forgotten, and ingratitude 
does n’t run in the Douglas blood. She would do 
more for me than what I am going to ask her.” 

“ And that is ? ” asked Effie. 

“Just this,” continued Douglas. “To give you 
and the child a home. She ’s a good woman — a wee 
bit strict in matters of kirk discipline, maybe. She 
will shelter you and keep your secret, for my sake.” 

Effie’s quick wits had been at work before he 
ceased to speak, considering the advantages and draw- 
backs offered by this scheme. To her thinking the 
latter were very much more pronounced. To sentence 
herself to pass the rest of her days in a northern 
provincial town, under the eye of a fanatical Presby- 
terian widow who would be the confidante of her 
shameful story, was a prospect which presented little 
allurement to her sensuous, pleasure-loving nature. 
The fact, also, that the person who was to afford her 
refuge was a near relative of Richard Douglas did not 
add to its attractions. Like all selfish people, she 
hated to be reminded of an obligation. It would 
perhaps be too strong a statement to say that she 
hated Douglas. Hatred is not a sentiment easily felt 
by people of her nature. She was miserable in his 
presence and under his influence, and her fear of the 
public shame she had brought upon herself was hardly 


Effie Hetherington. 


2 35 


stronger than her desire to escape from his neighbour- 
hood. But she had no scheme formed for which she 
could hope his acquiescence, so she listened without 
interrupting him, only silently forming a resolution 
that, whatever asylum she might find, it would not be 
in Aberdeen or anywhere else where she would ever 
be liable to see his face or hear his name again. All 
this passed through her mind in less time than it takes 
to read it — in much less time than is needful to 
write it. 

“Well, Effie ? ” he asked, after some seconds of 
silence. 

u You are very good,” she answered. w I don’t know 
how to thank you for all your care and kindness.” 

u I will write to my cousin to-day,” he said. w You 
will want to make some purchases, I suppose. Tell 
Elspeth what you need, and she shall go into Dumfries 
and bring it for you.” 

He kept his speech and voice studiously common- 
place, and only the haggard eyes which dwelt upon 
her spoke of the poignant emotion which filled him. 

“ You are very good,” she said again. Perhaps 
some divination of his sufferings pierced her mind and 
filled her with a momentary tenderness, perhaps the 
action was dictated by a desire to eradicate any lingering 
suspicion he might harbour of her intention to deceive 
him, but she so far conquered her physical repugnance 
as to take his hand and carry it to her lips. He put 
his arms about her and drew her, shuddering, in his 


236 


Effie Hetherington . 


strong embrace to his breast, and held her there for a 
little time. She felt his lips touch her hair. “ God 
Almighty bless you ! ” he said in a deep murmur, and 
released her. She left him, and her shallow heart was, 
for a moment, touched and softened. But it hardened 
again a moment later, as she sat in the bedroom 
thinking of the purport of the words she had just 
heard. Her one passionate desire was to break utterly 
and completely with every tie which bound her to her 
past life, to start afresh and untrammelled. The more 
she thought of the plan Douglas had revealed to her, 
the stronger grew her detestation of the prospect it 
disclosed. A seeming acquiescence for long enough 
to throw Douglas off his guard was necessary. Any 
suspicion of her intentions he might yet retain once 
put to sleep, evasion would be easy. She held a con- 
sultation with Elspeth about the purchase of certain 
articles of wearing apparel, and her subdued manner 
and timid expressions of gratitude to her for the 
trouble she was taking half softened the old woman 
towards her. When next she saw Douglas, he silently 
handed her an unsealed letter. It was to his cousin, 
telling Effie’s story briefly but fully, and very gently, 
and asking, for the sake of auld lang syne, an asylum 
for the girl. She gave it back to him with trembling 
lips and drooping eyes. 

u You are very good,” she said again. “ I am not 
worth all the trouble you take about me. Indeed, 
indeed, I am not.” 


Effie Hetherington. 


2 37 


There was some genuine feeling in her words. 
The sense of her unworthiness and ingratitude was 
growing on her hour by hour, the feeling that even now 
she was plotting to deceive the man who had heaped 
such kindnesses upon her was almost unendurable. 

“Worth!” he repeated. “You’re worth my 
heart’s best blood, Effie, and I ’d give it if you 
needed it.” 

There was none of the old wildness or violence in 
his speech ; that had all gone. He spoke the words 
quite quietly, but she knew that they were true. 

“ I must get away,” she said to herself. “ I shall 
go mad if I stay here.” 

The best means of escape was the simplest. She 
waited until the early dusk had fallen, assumed her 
hat and cloak, and assured herself of the safety of her 
money and valuables. The child was asleep, and she 
did not dare to kiss the little pink face for fear of 
waking it from its slumber. It was the visible sign 
of her shame and humiliation, but as she bent above 
it for the last time the hot tears gushed from her eyes 
in pity of its helplessness. She dried them, and walked 
into the sitting-room, where Douglas was sitting 
according to his most melancholy wont, with an 
unheeded book open upon his knee. He looked at 
her in surprise. 

“ You are going out ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes,” she said. “ I want fresh air. I feel as if I 
can’t breathe any longer in the house.” 


238 


Effie Hetherington. 


w But it ’s quite dark,” he said. 

“ So much the better,” she answered. u I shall not 
be long away.” 

Her manner gave no hint of her purpose as she left 
the room. Douglas stood at the window, staring at 
the point where her slight figure vanished in the mist. 
No thought touched him that he had heard her voice 
and seen her face for the last time on this side of the 
grave. He returned to his melancholy musings by 
the ingle nook. He had had but little regular sleep 
of late days, and such repose as he had found had been 
principally in the form of short doses. He fell into 
one now, and awoke with a startled conviction that he 
had been asleep for many hours. The old-fashioned 
clock above the heavy mantel told him he had been 
unconscious for a few minutes only. He nodded 
again, and sank this time into a deep slumber, from 
which he was awakened by Elspeth. 

w Laird, laird ! For a’ sakes, what ’s gane wi’ Miss 
Hetherington ? ” 

He sprang to his feet, staring wildly at the old 
woman. 

“ I went into the bedroom to spier gin she ’d need 
of anything afore the morn, and she ’s no there.” 

Douglas glanced at the clock, which was almost on 
the stroke of eleven. 

u Great God ! ” he exclaimed. “ She went out at 
seven. She ’s lost on the Moss ! Get lanterns ! 
Call for help ! ” 


EJfie Hetherington. 


2 39 


He ran from the house like a man distraught, 
shrieking u Effie ! ” Help came, but it was of no 
avail. They built a huge fire on a piece of rising 
ground to lead the wanderer back to the house, and 
Douglas beat the Moss till broad daylight, but no 
trace of the missing girl was found. Hoarse with 
shouting her name, weary with miles of running and 
leaping over bogs and watercourses, he stood alone on 
the shore of the Firth, with the lines of the old ballad 
ringing in his brain like a funeral knell — 

“ And ‘ Hey, Annie ! ’ and ‘ How, Annie! ’ 

And ‘ Annie, come hither to me! * 

And aye the more he cried ‘ Annie,’ 

The loader rair’d the sea !” 

Two days of such hideous misery as no pen could 
describe passed by, days of terror and wonder and 
doubt and wild conjecture, and on the morning of the 
third day a letter came. Douglas knew the hand, and 
an irrepressible cry of gratitude broke from his lips. 
tc She ’ s alive ! Thank God for that ! ” 

The letter bore the London postmark, and ran as 
follows — 

u Dear Mr. Douglas, — I scarcely know how to 
write to you. You must think me the most wicked 
and the most ungrateful of women, but indeed, indeed 
I am not ungrateful. I shall never forget your kind- 
ness and generosity. I shall think of you always as 
the truest and noblest friend that ever God gave to a 


240 


Ejfie Hetherington. 


poor disgraced girl, and shall remember and honour 
you till I die. Forgive me, and try to forget me and 
all the pain I have caused you. I could not stay in 
Dumfries, or go to your cousin at Aberdeen. She 
would know my wretched story, I could never escape 
from the consequences of my weakness and folly. I 
am far happier among strangers. I shall try and find 
some honest employment by which I can live, and I 
promise that you shall hear of me from time to time, 
and know how I am getting on. My child is safe in 
your hands, I know, until the time comes when I can 
send for her. May she become a better and happier 
woman than her broken-hearted mother. Again and 
again I thank you and beg your forgiveness. Forgive 
and forget her who will always remain your unhappy 
and grateful friend, 

“ Effie Hetherington.” * 

Douglas sat, still as a carven figure, with the letter 
in his hand. He had no sense of the heartless selfish- 
ness disclosed in its every phrase, no understanding of 
anything but the one simple and sufficing fact that 
she was gone and quite beyond his reach, and many 
hours passed before he could realise so much in more 
than the dimmest and vaguest fashion. The house 
seemed filled with her presence still as by some strange 
and subtle perfume. His heart and brain alike seemed 
numbed. The thought floated across his mind that 
so men felt when they were dead. 


Effie Hetherington . 


241 


The child ! She had left him the child. He rose, 
and walked with the slow gait and bowed shoulders of 
an old man into the bedroom. The baby lay, flushed 
and rosy, on the bed. As he bent over it, it awoke. 
The two bright blue eyes shone on him with a sudden 
sweet surprise. It gave a gurgling crow and stretched 
out its little arms. A nameless passion of pity and 
affection flooded his heart, and he bent closer still 
above the child, looking at it through a mist of tears. 


EPILOGUE. 


SEVENTEEN YEARS AFTER. 


OUTH, high spirits, summer sunshine, and the 



J- first glimpse of Paris ! A combination of 
delights not often to be found in life, the most 
delightful of passing realities, an inexhaustible theme 
of happy memories. Efiie will remember, so long as 
she remembers anything, every detail of that glorious 
time. The stir and bustle of London as she drove 
through the summer dusk to Charing Cross. The 
clangour of the traffic under the sonorous roof of the 
great station, the cross lights raying the misty canopy 
of smoke and steam, the shrill whistle of the guard and 
answering scream and pant of the engine, the delicious 
little shock with which the train started, the smooth, 
rapid journey through the darkening fields as the last 
dying gleams of day gave place to the mild light of the 
stars. Dover, with the boat waiting to receive them, 
puffing and groaning at the quay as if as impatient as 
any item of its living freight to span the thread of 
water which separated them from the goal of their 
pilgrimage. Steady lights ashore, long wavering 
tracks of brightness in the water, a salt smelling 


Effie Hetherington. 


243 


breeze acting on healthy lungs and juvenile imagina- 
tions like a sort of aerial champagne, hollow trampings 
of heavy feet about the echoing deck, callings and 
counter callings of hoarse voices, a panting and 
rumbling from the engine-room, a sudden vertiginous, 
half fearful and wholly delicious sense of movement, 
settling to a rhythmic, snake-like motion as the boat 
takes the open water and glides to sea. A perfect 
night, the air, despite its briny crispness, soft to the 
cheek as the touch of velvet, great white stars dropping 
pure light down on the silver-crested waves of the 
void black water, just enough wind to make the vessel 
dance a steady and gentle minuet to the merry flapping 
and crackling of the steamer overhead. 

Eflie stood and watched the lights of Dover and 
their trails in the water fade from sight till the great 
beacon towering above them was the only rival of the 
patient stars. That faded too, little by little, and she 
was still straining he{ eyes after its last faint speck of 
brightness, when Douglas touched her on the shoulder. 

“You ’ll see the lights of Grisnez in a minute or 
two, Eflie. ,, 

The girl clung to his arm, and together they looked 
forward over the plunging prow of the vessel till the 
Star of France flickered on their vision, faint as the 
last glimpse they had caught of the lights of Dover. 
They watched it grow, flashing out, after every brief 
minute of obscurity, with greater brilliance. The 
girl’s bright eyes dwelt upon it with a hungry eager- 


244 


Ejfie Hetherington . 


ness for the great unknown world it seemed to typify 
to her fervent imagination. All that she had ever 
read of the history and literature of France was palpi- 
tating in her mind. Douglas could feel her heart 
beating against his arm. He could but think of that 
long bygone time, when he, as ardent and hopeful, 
well-nigh as innocent and pure, as the child who stood 
beside him, had first looked upon the beacon toward 
which they were sailing, with wonder and imagination 
and hope all seething in his bosom. He looked at the 
girl with a sad, wistful fondness in the dark eyes which 
gleamed from the penthouse of his grizzled brows, 
glad in her innocent joy, touched and pleased by her 
simple enthusiasm. 

Calais, the scene of Dover over again, with a differ- 
ence, a difference which proved to Effie what she 
found it difficult to believe, that at last she stood on 
foreign soil. A clamour of voices shouting profane 
French and ruinous English, shifting, shadowy figures 
in the alternate gleams and glooms of the quay, stolid 
douaniers , impervious to untravelled English matrons 
and their broods, dubious of the intention of the 
French government in relation to their effects, a knot 
of red-breeched soldiers, unimposing in stature but 
tremendous in regard to moustaches. Mrs. Campbell 
emerges from the ladies’ cabin, dolefully apathetic in 
deportment, and with a complexion of sage green : 
the poor lady’s first experience of salt water has been 
discomforting. 


Effie Hetherington. 


245 


ct Are you hungry, Effie ? ” Douglas asks. u We 
have an hour before the train starts for Paris.” 

u I am indeed ! ” Effie answers. u Though I don’t 
believe I should have known it if you had not asked 
me. 

So they go together to the buffet, a place so unlike 
the drear barracks which usurp that name in England, 
as is readily conceivable ; with prettily painted walls and 
ceiling, innumerable little tables clad in snowy drapery 
and set out with the brightest of glass and cutlery, 
with a general air of fresh gaiety and spick-and-span 
neatness about it, where young gentlemen with waxed 
moustaches suspend the rattling of dominoes and the 
consumption of petits verres to gaze at the beautiful 
young Englishwoman. And indeed they might have 
travelled far indeed to find anything more delightful. 
The girl’s happiness shone in her face, her cheeks 
were rich with colour, her bright eyes roved with 
eager curiosity over every object within their ken. 
The very waiter was proud to serve her, and not a 
moustachio’d breaker of hearts in the room but envied 
the sad-faced, grizzled, elderly gentleman to whom 
she chattered so gaily. 

On hissed the train again, where Douglas heroically 
foregoes his pipe till his cousin goes to sleep, then he 
lights up and watches Effie as she leans back in her 
corner, too happy to talk, too excited to sleep, looking 
out on the fat French pastures as the train glides 
swiftly through the dimly luminous night, till she can 


246 


Effie Hetherington. 


contain her happiness in silence no longer, and crosses 
over to him. 

M How good you are ! ” She put her arms round 
his neck and nestled to him in her pretty childish 
fashion. u I think you ’re the best, kindest old dear 
in the world ! ” 

He put his arm round her, and she sat still, looking 
out dreamily at the shadowy trees and hedges as they 
flitted by to the rhythmic waltz played by the panting 
engine and the ringing wheels, till she fell asleep. 

Douglas’s thoughts were with the past ; he glanced 
at the innocent sleeping face pillowed on his shoulder, 
and could have thought that it was that other face 
which had been his delight and torment eighteen years 
ago — years which had passed so slowly and yet seemed 
now so short. Where was she, that other Effie, so 
passionately loved, so tenderly pitied and regretted ? 

“ Dead ! ” he murmured the words in his muffled 
hand. “ Dead years ago. She must be dead. No 
word from her, no sign, no question about the child 
she left behind.” 

He looked again at the child’s face, and his thoughts 
flew to the future. A thousand times the girl’s mar- 
vellous likeness to her unhappy mother had frightened 
him. He remembered her as she was on that night of 
Halloween when they had first met, radiant in youth 
and hope and beauty, as his Effie was now, and as 
he had last seen her, shrinking, haggard, shamefaced. 
All his love, all his strength had not sufficed to guard 


Effie Hetherington. 


247 


her from evil. And now she seemed to have returned 
to earth, her old innocent and happy self, to wring his 
heart with fresh torments, perhaps, torments greater 
than he had suffered in the past. For there was in 
his love for this second Effie a perfection of purity, 
an utter and complete self-abnegation, as a father’s 
love for a cherished daughter, to which he had only 
come in the former case after purgation of earthly 
passion by prolonged and terrible sorrow. This child 
was more to him than her mother had been ; had she 
been veritably his he could not have loved her with 
a keener devotion. She was mother and child in 
one. 

u God help me to shield her from all harm ! ” he 
prayed. 

Effie woke as the train clashed and roared into the 
Gare du Nord with reverberate echoes as of theatrical 
thunder. 

44 Paris ! ” she cried. 44 Oh, is it Paris ? ” 

44 Aye,” said Douglas, ct Paris, sure enough.” 

They got their luggage passed by the douane , where 
even the impassable officials, charmed by the girl’s 
bright face and childish impatience, were moved to 
make good speed in their examination, and scrawled 
their chalk hieroglyphics on the trunks after scant 
scrutiny of their contents, and, mounting into their 
fiacre , were driven by the bulbous-nosed, white-hatted 
cocher along the interminable Rue Lafayette, past the 
Op6ra, and along the Rue de la Paix to a quiet little 


248 


Effie Hetherington. 


hotel in the Rue Balzac. The Arc de Triomphe, 
which Effie was proud of knowing at first sight, was 
gleaming dimly in the early summer dawn as they 
reached their destination, and the birds were twittering 
in the fresh green of the trees. 

Effie was afoot early that morning, and in her wild 
curiosity to see all that Paris had to show ran poor 
Mrs. Campbell quite off her feet in the first two days. 
But Douglas was her willing servant and courier, and 
made his staid middle age keep pace with her youth 
with the best grace in the world. They did things 
quietly, as became their modest income, but there 
were a good many wealthier people then in Paris who 
got less pleasure out of the city than they. The pits 
of many theatres knew them, the long corridors of the 
Louvre and the avenues of Versailles and St. Cloud. 
They passed delicious hours at the open-air concerts 
and cafes on the Champs Elys£es, fields truly elysian 
to the ardent and untravelled girl. They made pil- 
grimages to all the spots Douglas remembered in con- 
nection with his student life, to the rambling old hotel 
Garni , in which he had lodged, and sat in the gallery 
of the Odeon on the very seats which he and his 
chosen chum — a great surgeon now, whose name 
was known through Europe — had occupied on his 
first visit to that famous temple of the drama. 

Of all the delights which Paris offered to Effie, the 
opera was the greatest. Music was her passion, and 
Douglas, who hardly knew “ God Save the Queen ” 


Effie Hetherington . 249 

from the u Marseillaise,” was as happy in watching her 
pleasure in listening to it as she herself. 

It was at the opera that the one remarkable event of 
the last eighteen years of his life happened to Douglas. 

He and Effie and his cousin were seated in the 
parterre one evening, awaiting the rising of the cur- 
tain on the last act of w Faust,” when a party, con- 
sisting of two ladies and half a dozen gentlemen, 
entered a box on the grand tier. They were laughing 
and chattering merrily among themselves, and made a 
considerable bustle in taking their places, so that they 
naturally attracted a good deal of attention from the 
rest of the house. Douglas, looking idly in their 
direction, gave a sudden start. 

One of the ladies was Effie Hetherington ! 

He stared at her as if fascinated. She was fuller in 
figure, and years had not left her face unchanged ; but 
it was she, the lost and unforgotten, beyond the possi- 
bility of the most shadowy doubt. 

Fortunately for Douglas, the business on the stage 
was for a moment of such enthralling interest both to 
Effie and his cousin that neither had noticed the sudden 
movement which had followed his recognition of his 
lost love, nor the fixed gaze he continued to bend 
upon her face as she leaned upon the edge of the box. 
He heard the pulsation of the huge orchestra and the 
voices from the crowded stage, faint and distant as the 
humming of a cloud of summer flies, leaning slightly 
forward, grasping the partition-rail in front of him. 



250 


Effie Hetherington . 


How long he had sat thus fascinated he never knew, 
then or afterwards. It was probably only for a few 
seconds, it seemed to last a short eternity. 

He was first faintly recalled to surrounding con- 
ditions by a movement on the part of the woman he 
watched. Her face, which, as she listened idly to the 
chatter of a gentleman beside her, had been turned 
with a vague smile on the stage, suddenly changed its 
colour and expression ; a grey pallor and a look of fear, 
almost of horror, grew over it. She wiped her lips 
nervously with the kerchief she held in her hand, and 
her head turned in the direction of Douglas, at first 
slowly, her eyes, with an unnatural strained expression, 
quickly searching the long lines of faces beneath her, 
as if in mortal dread of what they sought so eagerly. 
At last they rested on his face. 

She sat for a moment as if turned to stone, the 
terrible pallor of her face deepening as she looked at 
him, her jaw drooping, her eyes glazed as if with the 
last pangs of mortality. Her companion seized her 
hand with a startled look, and at that touch the spell 
seemed to dissolve. She smiled faintly, murmured a 
few words in answer to his anxious queries, and, 
rising, passed to the back of the box. Her female 
companion and the other cavaliers looked round as if 
questioning the reason of her movement, and then 
rose as if to accompany her. Scarce knowing what 
he did, Douglas rose also, and with a scarcely intelli- 
gible word of excuse to Effie and his cousin, struggled 


Effie Hetherington. 


25 1 


through the close-packed mass of spectators in the 
parterre towards the exit. The crowd was too dense 
to admit of rapid movement, and his heart felt like 
bursting as he thought of the possibility of this short 
glimpse of the woman he loved being all that might 
be vouchsafed him after so many years of cruel doubt. 

He got out into the air at last, and reached the 
carriage entrance. His eyes, unnaturally sharpened by 
the tense excitement, caught a glimpse of the second 
lady in the box just as she mounted a closed carriage. 
The door was banged, the footman clambered to the 
coachman’s side, and the vehicle moved rapidly in the 
direction of the Rue de la Paix. Douglas followed it 
at a run, and coming presently to an empty fiacre , 
jumped into it and bade the driver continue the chase. 
The horse was, unfortunately, old and spavined, and 
made but slow progress, but still managed to keep the 
leading vehicle in sight until it turned into a street in 
the neighbourhood of the Parc Monceau. Douglas 
turned the corner in time to see its disappearance 
through a porte-cochere. He hastily paid and dis- 
missed his driver, completing the distance on foot. 
As he entered the courtyard of the house, he was 
accosted by a concierge. He slipped a five-franc piece 
into the man’s hand, and asked the name of the per- 
son, lady or gentleman, who lived there, and had just 
returned in the carriage. 

cc Madame Bertillon, au premier , monsieur.” 
u A handsome woman,” said Douglas, whose wits 


252 


Rffie Hetherington. 


were beginning to work again. “ Who and what is 
she ? ” 

“ A very amiable lady,” said the concierge, with the 
quiet smile of his class in answering such a question. 

A pang passed through Douglas’s heart, but he 
turned his face away to hide the spasm which crossed 
it, and entered the house, mounting to the first floor. 
He pressed the electric button beside the door of the 
suite, which was rapidly opened by a liveried servant. 

“ Madame Bertillon ? ” 

u C’est ici, monsieur. Does madame expect mon- 
sieur ? ” 

w No ; say that a gentleman, a stranger, begs 
earnestly to see her on business of the greatest 
importance.” 

He was shown into a little salon, beautifully 
furnished and decorated, and as he waited, the sound 
of laughter and the clinking of glasses reached his ears 
from a neighbouring room. Presently Madame Ber- 
tillon entered. She was, as Douglas had said, a hand- 
some woman, tall, dark, with inscrutable black eyes, 
which at their first glance at him absorbed every detail 
of his appearance. 

“ You desired to see me, monsieur ? ” 

cc Yes. You have just returned from the Op£ra, 
madame ? ” She bent her head. u One of your party 
was a lady, an Englishwoman ? ” She replied by the 
same movement. “ My name is Douglas — Richard 
Douglas. Will you, madame, have the kindness to 


Effie Hetberington. 


2 53 


tell that lady that I am here, and that I beg her by all 
she holds sacred to see me, if but for a moment ? ” 

“ But she is not here, monsieur.” 

“ Not here ? ” 

“ No ; she left us at the entrance of the Op£ra, and 
went home.” 

“For God’s sake, madame, deal honestly with 
me!” 

The lady flushed angrily for a moment, but there 
was such a yearning and distress readable in his face 
that she held back the words which had risen to her 
lips, and answered, quietly — 

“ I am doing so, the lady you seek is not here.” 

“ Will you give me her address ? ” 

The lady hesitated. 

“ Monsieur will see that he places me in an 
awkward predicament. He is a stranger to me, and 
the lady herself is only a casual acquaintance. It is a 
liberty I dare not take ! 99 

“ Are you following her instructions in refusing 
me ? ” asked Douglas. 

The lady shrugged her shoulders very slightly, but 
made no further answer. 

Douglas’s head drooped haggardly upon his breast, 
and the woman watched him with something like pity 
in her bold black eyes. 

“ Will you give her a message ? ” he asked, looking 
up again. 

“ Any message you please, and willingly,” she replied. 


254 


Effie Hetherington. 


“ Tell her,” he began, his deep voice throbbing as 
all he would have told her, had she stood then before 

him, boiled like lava in his heart — tc tell her ” he 

controlled himself by a strong effort. cc Tell her,” he 
continued quietly, “ that Richard Douglas is here in 
Paris, and that the child who sat beside him to-night 
is her daughter.” 

The lady waited for him to continue. 

u That is all.” 

“ She shall have the message, monsieur. Will you 
give me your address ? ” 

“ Hotel de l’Am£rique, Rue Balzac.” 

The lady promised him the earliest possible informa- 
tion, and with that promise he rested content perforce. 

The dawn broke over the city ere he reached 
home, worn out with long walking. He came down 
to breakfast haggard and weary, in a fever of sup- 
pressed excitement, puzzling Effie and Mrs. Campbell 
by his strange bearing. 

The day passed and brought no news, and the next 
and the next again. On the fourth day came a curt 
missive, with no signature, to the effect that the lady 
whose address Mr. Douglas desired to know had 
quitted Paris, giving no hint of her whereabouts. 
Douglas groaned as he read the few cold words of 
the note, with a bitterer despair than he had 
known since Effie Hetherington’s flight eighteen 
years ago. She had seen both himself and the child 
at the Op6ra, the terror of recognition in her face 


Effie Hetherington. 


2 55 


had been proof enough of that. The refusal to see 
him he could have understood. Eighteen years of 
thought about Effie, of every remembered act and 
word, had given him an insight into her character. 
She was still the one woman on earth to him, the only 
feminine presence which had had power to illumine 
his passion and fill his life. But much of the old 
illusion was gone. He had come to see her more as 
in truth she was, fickle and headstrong, a feather 
blown by any chance gust of emotion, purposeless, 
and if not quite heartless, with no capacity of steady 
aim or settled purpose, neither affectionate nor passion- 
ate, but a mingling and neutralisation of both those 
natures, loving pleasure and abhorring pain. But that, 
after eighteen years of absence from the child she 
had borne, she should still reject the chance of meeting 
her, seemed strange and cruel. Was it from fear of 
the pain of the meeting, or from a desire to spare the 
child the evil knowledge of the circumstances of her 
birth, or from simple callousness ? He could not 
think it was the last. But the poison of doubt 
and disappointment so rankled in his blood that at 
moments he was well-nigh mad. He had thought 
and believed that his passion for the child-woman 
he had known eighteen years ago was dead. It 
had sprung to life again in his heart at the mere 
sight of her face. He was possessed by a longing 
to see her again, to hear her voice, perhaps to touch 
her hand. 


256 


Ejfie Hetberington . 


That old familiar demon, once reinstated, so shook 
him that he could not rest. He compelled himself to 
some semblance of calm before his cousin and his ward, 
and went about with them as much as possible during 
the day. But at night his passion conquered him, 
driving him out on long aimless rambles about the 
city. He had no sleep, save for brief moments of 
lethargy, when physical fatigue conquered him, and 
night after night he beat the pavement of Paris, 
south, east, north, and west, with a half-unconscious 
craving for the anodyne that muscular exertion will 
sometimes bring to the overweighted brain and jaded 
nerves. 

One morning, some ten days after that brief 
glimpse of Effie, he stood upon the Pont des Arts. 
The sun had just risen, and was gilding the roofs and 
chimneys of the higher buildings. A breeze of dawn 
stirred the languid air and ruffled the sluggish waves 
of the river. Overhead a cloudless sky of illimitable 
depth and stainless purity stretched from horizon to 
horizon. The shadows of the buildings on either 
hand, and of the craft at rest upon the river, were 
reflected in the stream well-nigh as clearly as in a 
mirror. Presently, as he broodingly watched the 
scene, a glint of bright colour caught his eye in the 
centre of the stream. He watched it rise and fall 
with the slight motion of the water, at first with 
neither comprehension nor inquiry of its nature, till 
suddenly, with a gasp of horror, he saw that it was a 


Effie Hetherington. 


2 57 


woman’s dress. He ran from the bridge and down 
to the causeway, and, as he came upon it, a boat, 
manned by officers in the uniform of the Parisian 
police, darted from the opposite shore swiftly in the 
direction of the object. The boat paused for a 
moment beside it, and Douglas saw a limp and 
dripping form lifted from the water. The slow pace 
at which the boat approached the landing-stage told 
its own story. Had a spark of life remained it would 
have come at full speed. The boat came to the quay 
almost at Douglas’s feet. Slowly and silently two of 
its occupants climbed the short flight of steps leading 
from the surface of the river, bearing their uncon- 
scious burden. They laid her on the stones, and 
Douglas, with a scream like a woman’s, fell on his 
knees beside the body of Effie Hetherington. 

u Effie ! Effie ! Oh, my God ! she can’t be dead ! 
It is n’t possible ! ” 

He appealed wildly to the men, who stood looking 
down on him in silent wonder. The others came 
running up from the boat, and stood around him 
as he called on the dead woman’s name, pressing 
her cold, dank body to his heart with eager, hungry 
hands. 

u She ’s dead ! she ’s dead ! ” he moaned, and let 
her slip from his hands back upon the stones of 
the quay. 

The men stood whispering among themselves as 
he knelt with clasped hands above the body, and 
i7 


258 


Effie Hetherington. 


one among them, approaching him, addressed him. 
Douglas stared at him, with no comprehension of the 
words, till the question was repeated. 

“ You knew this unhappy lady, sir? ” Douglas’s 
face was answer enough ; he was so numbed with 
horror and despair as to have lost the power of speech. 
“ The body must go the Morgue. Will monsieur 
accompany us ? ” 

He saw the dripping figure laid upon a stretcher, 
heard the word given, and mechanically followed the 
silent procession to the little building behind the 
Cathedral, the sad scene of the epilogue of so many 
tragedies. As he walked his brain began to work 
again. A sudden thought made him start and clutch 
the arm of the officer at his side. 

“ The Morgue ! ” he exclaimed. w Will the body 
be exposed ? ” 

“ I see no reason for it,” said the officer, “ as things 
stand. Bodies are exposed, not for the gratification of 
morbid curiosity, but for recognition, or to procure 
evidence of the circumstances of death. Monsieur 
can state the identity of the lady, and that should be 
sufficient.” 

There was a little comfort in the reply, but as they 
walked on Douglas became conscious of obtruding 
doubts. His knowledge of Effie dated eighteen years 
back. He knew nothing of her life during all that 
period. The desire of saving her from that crowning 
degradation steadied his brain, and set him devising 


Effie Hetherington . 


259 


means of escaping it. They arrived at their melan- 
choly bourn, where the guardian of the Morgue 
received them with the stolid indifference natural 
to a man whose life was passed amid kindred 
horrors. 

tc C’est dommage,” he remarked, looking at the body 
with his hands in his pockets and a blackened pipe be- 
tween his teeth, w une femme si belle.” The officer 
told him of Douglas’s recognition of the dead body, 
and of his desire to save the body from the exposure 
customary at the Morgue. w C’est selon,” he re- 
marked apathetically ; and, turning to the volume in 
which new arrivals were registered, asked Douglas 
what he knew. He shook his head at his communi- 
cation. His orders were peremptory, and the eyidence 
was insufficient to obviate the need of exposure. Under 
what circumstances had the lady died — by murder, 
suicide, or accident ? Where was her domicile ? 
Was she married or single ? The police would ask 
to know all these things, and the means for finding 
them was the exposure of the body according to law. 
He was desole, but what could he do ? The officer 
standing by supported the grisly official’s dictum with 
a pitying shrug. 

The very horror of the situation helped to steady 
Douglas’s mind. At all costs and by any means the 
final insult of the exposure of Effie’s body to the 
brutal curiosity of a Parisian mob must be averted. 
But how ? 


260 


EJfie Hetherington. 


The remembrance of the lady of the Parc Monceau 
flashed through his brain. She could do at least this 
much — she could state the name under which Effie 
had been known in Paris, her domicile, perhaps her 
friends and acquaintances. He rushed from the 
Morgue into the street and found a carriage. 

Arrived at Madame Bertillon’s house, he roused the 
sleeping concierge, and bade him inform madame of 
his urgent need of seeing her at once. He accom- 
panied the man into the house, and waited in the 
little salon into which he had been conducted on his 
former visit. Madame’s answer was, as he had 
expected, that she could not see him at that hour. 
He must come later. He sent the concierge back 
with a more peremptory message, which the lady this 
time answered in person. The scowl of lowering 
anger on her handsome features changed at the look 
Douglas bent upon her. He gave her no time to ask 
questions, but in one eager sentence told her all. 
Perhaps it was a lingering remnant of womanly 
feeling, perhaps it was a feeling that to cross the 
will of this wild, fierce man might be dangerous, 
perhaps a mingling of the two, but she submitted to 
his imperative order that she should accompany him, 
and returned, after a brief absence, dressed for the 
street. Douglas had a second carriage in waiting, 
and the driver, incited by the promise of a triple fare, 
covered the distance to the Morgue in a wonderfully 
little time. 


Rffie Hetherington . 


261 


Madame Bertillon looked down on the dead face. 

U I knew this lady. Her name is Lucie Vanstone. 
She is an Englishwoman, and lived at 106, Rue Col- 
bert, Champs Elys£es.” 

tc Is that enough to save the body from exposure ? ” 
Douglas asked the gardien. 

u Yes, unless by further orders from the police. 
But there is still the post mortem. That will be 
easy. She died by drowning, poor little one. I know 
the symptoms, I. I have not been gardien here for 
fifteen years without learning so much.” 

During the next day or two Douglas learned more 
than enough of that long space in Effie’s life which 
had been so complete a blank to him. La Belle 
Anglaise had been a brilliant figure in the half world 
of Paris for some years past, and the gossiping journals 
chronicled her triumphs and eccentricities with com- 
ments cynical, flippant, and pitying, and made guesses 
of all sorts as to the secret of her tragedy. But it 
remained a secret. There was not the faintest 
suspicion of foul play on the part of any one, 
and suicide seemed as unlikely a solution of the 
mystery as murder. She was still young, still 
beautiful, with no troubles, monetary or otherwise, 
which could have prompted her to self-destruction. 
The brilliant, foolish, wicked life was ended, the 
passionate and world-worn heart was at rest at last. 
Among the thousands who babbled of the mystery of 
her death, one silent, suffering soul alone could guess 


262 


Fjffie Hetherington. 


its secret. The man who had loved her with so pure 
and passionate a devotion, whose life she had wrecked, 
who loved her memory still with a divine compassion 
which no revelation of her infamy could tarnish, still 
found one pitiful and tragic explanation of her fate. 
That chance glimpse of the man she had so deeply 
wronged, and of the child she had abandoned, had 
wrought her nature to the pitch of self-annihilation. 
Horrible as the thought was, Douglas found some- 
thing that almost might be called comfort in it. 
Better so, oh, surely, better so ! than that she should 
have gone back unrepentant and unmoved to the life 
she had been so long content to live. 

* * * * * 

cc You must find some means of amusing yourself 
alone to-morrow, Lizzie,” said Douglas to his cousin 
a night or two later. “ I want Effie to drive with me 
to-morrow. The carriage will be here at ten o’clock, 
my child. Be ready.” 

He spoke with his ordinary grave calm, and though 
both Effie and his cousin had remarked the settled 
gloom and the secrecy regarding his movements of the 
last few days, they asked no questions. 

u If you have a plain, dark dress with you,” he 
added, after a moment’s pause, “ put it on.” 

They drove away together in silence, and were 
clear of Paris before Effie ventured to ask the purpose 
of their drive. 


Effie Hetherington. 263 

u We are going,” said Douglas, 11 to a funeral at 
the church of St. Cloud.” 

“ A funeral,” repeated Effie, wonderingly. 

u Yes. The funeral of a lady.” His voice was 
hardly more than ordinarily grave, though his eyes 
dwelt on Effie with an intense, haggard pity and 
affection. u I knew her years ago, when she was 
young and innocent and beautiful, like — like you, my 
dear ! ” The calm voice shook a little at its own 
veiled meaning. “ She died the other day, alone and 
friendless. It is a fancy of mine that you should 
stand with me beside her grave.” 

He said no more, and the silence remained unshaken 
between them till they reached the church, and took 
their way amid the flowering mounds. The broad 
expanse of tranquil country smiled about them, dotted 
here and there with peaceful villages and farms, ver- 
dant masses of trees, and below hummed the ceaseless 
tides of the great city. 

They came at last upon a new-made grave — the 
first that had ever opened at Effie’s feet. A faint 
sound of measured and monotonous singing in the 
little church ceased, and a minute after the funeral 
cortege , led by a white-haired priest, came into the 
clear, bright sunshine, and approached them. 

The solemn words were spoken, the clods pattered 
with hollow reverberations on the coffin lid. Douglas 
stood by, dry-eyed, with bent head, holding Effie’s 
hand in his. The tears were raining down her face, 


264 


Effie Hetherington. 


they sparkled like dewdrops on the little bunch of 
flowers she took from her bosom and dropped into 
the grave. 

ct Say,” whispered Douglas, “ God bless her ! ” 

She repeated the words brokenly after him, and 
together they turned hand in hand and left the 
grave. 





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